The Broken Places
by sinceyoufellinlovewithme
Summary: Young Cora Crawley is happily settling in to her marriage to Lord Downton. All that's left are for her to have a baby and for Robert to fall in love with her, and she doesn't think either will take very much longer. Until there's a terrible accident... Precanon AU.
1. Chapter 1

AN: I'll still be updating my drabble/one-shot collection (especially when I haven't got time for a full chapter in this story), but I'm also starting on this new, multi-chapter fic. There may be times when updates come a bit slower, because this story requires a certain amount of medical research as I go. Also, while I have a general idea where I'm going, I don't have a full outline yet (I am an outline person!), so I may be thrashing around a bit behind the scenes. I considered getting the full story written before I released it, but I decided I didn't want to do that, because I really value input from reviewers about things they think should happen or might happen. (I've been known to add or alter future scenes in other fics based on stuff you all have told me, so please don't be shy with your comments and suggestions!)

As a side note for all of you literature buffs, the title comes from a Hemingway quote, "The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places."

And now, without further ado, let's get rolling!

* * *

What Cora would remember most was the crack—the awful cracking sound that she heard, more than felt, throughout her body in the split second before her head hit the ground and the world went dark. Perhaps it had become louder in her memory after she learned of its significance, but when she recalled the incident, the noise, as quick as it was, always felt comparable in volume to a freight train passing inches from her head. For it was this _crack_ that had so neatly split her life into two halves, the _before_ and the _after_ , or, as she would come to think in the weeks and months to follow, her _real_ life and this hellish waiting room for death.

But for Robert, what was most seared in his brain was not Cora's landing, it was her fall, the moment she had flown through the air, thrown from the back of her horse as it missed the jump over the fence. For a second that had lingered like an hour, she had seemed almost weightless, suspended in midair, and in his dreams he would kick his horse, pressing it to gallop towards her, as he stretched his arms out, desperate to reach her in time. He never did, of course—every dream ended as the reality had, with Cora falling to the ground while he was still yards away from catching her. But it was the image of her in midair—the last time she'd been truly free—that stayed with him.

* * *

It was a warm summer day, and the household had only recently returned from the season in London, an occasion which, now that Robert and Cora were each settled, they both found to be far more fun than they had remembered. They had been married a little less than five months, and while they were not quite at ease together yet, they had grown easi _er_ , comfortable enough to enjoy each other's company. Cora had begun to feel her marriage was not the lonely, hopeless affair it had seemed on their wedding night, and she was growing more and more confident that Robert's affection and regard for her would eventually turn into a love that might match hers for him. Perhaps there would even be a baby soon.

The warmth and the sun had led Robert to suggest they go out for a ride over the estate—a decision he would endlessly curse himself for. But Cora had readily agreed, and they'd taken to their horses and headed out over the fields.

Cora had become rather good at riding since their marriage. She'd had lessons before she left America in anticipation of a life spent in the English countryside, and she and Robert had ridden out quite frequently. He'd embraced her enthusiasm, having expected an American wife from New York to be suited for nothing wilder than the house in London, and so he'd encouraged her, teaching her to gallop and to jump and to race against him. It would all give him no end of guilty, sleepless nights later.

They were riding hard that day, their horses running and panting, and Robert wondered briefly if the fence ahead of them were a bit too high to take at their current speed, and a bit too high for Cora's abilities at the moment, regardless. Yet it had barely had time to become a fully formed thought when her horse was leaping—a second too soon, he realized as his heart climbed into his throat—and then it was crashing down on the barrier, its hind portion not quite making it over. And then Cora was in the air.

She screamed, and her name tore from his own throat, as though his voice might somehow catch her before she hit the ground, and then he heard the _thud_ as she landed on the other side of the fence. He would marvel later at the speed with which it had all happened—three seconds, or perhaps even less.

He had been far enough behind her to pull his horse to a stop a couple yards from the fence, and he swung himself down immediately, calling her name.

"Cora! Cora! Are you all right? Cora?" When she did not answer, his panic increased, and he scurried over the fence.

She was lying on her back, her eyes closed, tossed aside like a doll, and for a moment he thought…but no, she was breathing. He knelt next to her, hesitant as he tried to imagine her injuries.

There was nothing obviously wrong with her—no limbs at odd angles, and of course she could not tell him where she hurt. She'd clearly hit her head hard enough to knock herself out, but perhaps that was the extent of it? Perhaps she'd wake later with an egg and a roaring headache, but nothing more.

Yet he was frightened to move her on his own, without some indication of any other injuries. It was a fear he would be endlessly thankful for later, even as he scoffed at the innocence of his imaginings at the time. He'd worried that she might have a broken arm or leg that ought to be splinted first, or a sore back that he would aggravate by moving her improperly.

In a few short hours, he would not know whether to laugh or cry at such simple suggestions.

But he determined that he would go back for help, back for the doctor for her and the groom for her horse, which had sunk to the ground as well and which was whinnying softly. He pressed Cora's arm in a silent promise to return immediately, patted the head of the suffering horse, and climbed back on his own animal.


	2. Chapter 2

"Lord Downton." Robert turned quickly at the sound of Dr. Jones's voice. The doctor had been upstairs with Cora, who had been brought back to the house on a stretcher and taken to bed. She had not yet regained consciousness, but that alone did not worry Robert—he did not doubt that it had been a hard fall and blow to her head. However, he had grown increasingly troubled at the length of time the doctor had spent in her room, and he'd helped himself to a glass of whiskey in the library to steady his nerves.

"How is she?" he asked at the man's arrival. "Is she awake yet?"

The doctor shook his head, joining him near the window. "No, my lord. I doubt that it will be much longer, but Lady Downton was still out when I left her." He fell silent, his face set in a way that suggested there was far more to be said.

"And her injuries? Is there more than her head? How bad is the injury there?"

Jones hesitated. "Her head isn't very bad, my lord. I don't think it should pain her for more than a day or so. However…"

Robert's breath caught at the pause in the doctor's voice and the strange sympathy on his face. He did know why he was afraid, or what it was he feared, but he suddenly knew that he did not want Jones to finish his sentence, did not want to draw back the curtain and see what was hidden behind.

"…your wife has broken her back, Lord Downton." Jones moved behind Robert, laying two fingers low on his back. "Roughly here."

Robert let out the breath he'd been holding. He was not sure what he had been expecting, but something worse than that. It was a terrible place to break a bone, he imagined, but it would heal just as any other body part would. There was no question in his mind that it would not.

"That sounds very painful," he said, wincing and feeling her injury as though it was his own. "How long will it take her to recover?"

A shadow passed over Jones's face. "I don't think you understand, my lord," he said, his voice suddenly very kind. "May we sit down?"

Robert gestured to the nearby couches, and they took seats across from each other. "Lady Downton has broken a vertebra in her lower spine, yes, but that isn't like breaking one's arm. Broken vertebrae usually cause injury at the same time to the spinal cord. Her ladyship's spinal cord has been…damaged. It isn't the sort of injury that we can cure, or that she can recover from."*

"So you're saying…" Robert knew what Jones was saying, but he could not let himself think it until the doctor had spoken the words.

"I'm saying that Lady Downton will never walk again."

"That…that can't be." He could feel his body revolting at the news: his stomach seemed to flip over, his lungs were suddenly unable to draw the proper amount of air, his muscles flexed and tensed as though preparing him to run _somewhere_ and find something or someone who could _fix_ her, and a thousand voices shouted in his head that it couldn't be true.

"That's not…it's not…you've examined her wrong! She…she can't be…"

"I'm sorry, my lord."

"My God, she's barely twenty," he went on, not hearing or caring about Jones anymore. He was suddenly so angry that he wanted to take the man by his collar and shake him for his awful diagnosis, wanted to go out and beat the horse bloody for its fall, wanted to shoot himself in the head for having suggested today's ride.

"She can't never walk again, not at twenty. It…it was only a stupid fall off a horse, for God's sake!" He stood and stalked angrily to the fire, hurling his half-drunk glass of whiskey into the flames. The crystal burst and shattered, and somehow the sight and the sound calmed him as he fought back a sob.

"My apologies, Dr. Jones," he said after a moment, turning back to the man on the couch.

"You've had a great shock, Lord Downton," Jones said gently. "And I don't wish to add to your pain, but I want to be clear with you. You must understand…it's not simply that she can't walk—"

"Are…are her arms…" Robert could not give voice to the question as he tried to imagine something worse than not being able to walk. Was she _completely_ crippled, trapped in a body that would never move at all?

The doctor shook his head. "No, no. Her arms are fine. But you must understand that the _reason_ she can't walk is that she has no control, no feeling, nothing at all below her injury. Everything below the spot I showed you earlier is paralyzed. Lady Downton can't…do anything at all with her lower body."

He stared for a moment before he suddenly understood what Jones was driving at. It had been the furthest thing from his mind until this point, but what kind of marriage could they possibly have now? "You mean, we cannot be intimate."**

"I'm afraid not, my lord."

"And…and there will be no heir." Robert felt as though he were freefalling through space. Although there had been no baby yet, the question of the succession, in his mind at least, had largely been settled. He had chosen his bride and the mother of his children; now it should have been merely a matter of time and patience.

"Lady Downton cannot bear children," the doctor responded. He looked as though he might say something more, but at that moment, the door opened to reveal Ainsworth, the butler.

"My lord, her ladyship has awakened, and Miss Clemens says she's asking for you."

Cora didn't know, he realized suddenly. Jones had left her before she was conscious, which meant that she'd been told none of this. She would have awakened to discover she couldn't feel or move her legs, and she would have no idea why.

He could not fathom how frightened she would be as he hurried to her room.

* * *

*I want to be clear from the beginning that Jones's diagnosis is accurate. I won't be repeating the Matthew plot, where we'll all find out a few months later that Cora's spine is just bruised. He's quite right in determining that she won't walk again.

**This is not necessarily true. Paralyzed women (and men too, actually) can and do have sex today, and while it's not the same sensation as it is for an able-bodied person, they can experience pleasure from it. They can also have babies. However, it would have been assumed in Robert and Cora's era that paralysis = no sex, and I don't think Robert would have been the type to see if he could force in regardless and thus find out that it _was_ possible.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Hello everyone! I wanted to comment briefly on the guest review from the last chapter that said you couldn't be paralyzed from a low back injury, because the spinal cord doesn't extend that far down. (I'd love for you to get a log-in, guest, so I can message you and hear more about what you know about this! :-) ) I don't have any medical background or personal knowledge of this, but from what I'm reading, your spinal cord does extend at least into the beginning of what would be called your lower back. Then around the first or second of the five vertebrae in the lumbar region, it becomes less of a cord and more of a bunch of nerves. Either way, though, an injury in the lower back could produce paralysis. Even if it's not high enough to damage the actual spinal cord and just cuts off the nerves instead, you still wouldn't be able to walk. (In order to have an injury so low it couldn't produce paralysis, it has to be in the sacral region, which is more your rear end than your back.)

All that said...my own knowledge here is pretty limited. :-)

* * *

"Robert?" He heard an American accent call his name as he approached Cora's bedroom, yet the voice was small, thin, frightened, and pained—nothing like his wife's.

He glanced at Dr. Jones, who had followed him upstairs to see Cora.

"Shall I give you a moment first, Lord Downton?"

Robert shook his head. He knew he was a coward, but he also knew he could not bring himself to step into that room alone. "No. She'll want to talk to you." Would she? Would he, in her situation? The idea of being paralyzed from the waist down was too incomprehensible to imagine what he would want if he were her.

"Cora," he said softly as he stepped inside. She had been changed into her nightdress and was lying flat on her back in bed, looking decidedly normal, and for a moment he tried to tell himself that it wasn't true, that the conversation downstairs had been a hallucination or a cruel joke on the doctor's part.

But then she spoke. "Robert, I can't—it's like my legs aren't there, I–I can't feel them!" she exclaimed, and he could hear the panic in her voice as she stretched her arm out towards him. Buying time before he would have to answer, he walked to her dressing table and brought the chair to her bedside, then sat and took her hands in both of his.

"You—you've had an accident," he began. And then he stared at her, not sure how to go any further. He wanted to soothe the fear written on her face, but he knew the only words he could offer would engrave it further.

"I know," she said. "I know I fell—Clemens said so, and I remember. But what's wrong with me? What's wrong with my legs? It's like…they've _died_." Robert suppressed a shudder at the phrase.

She caught sight of the doctor, who was still lingering in the doorway. "Doctor? Do you know what's wrong with my legs? Robert, help me sit up so I can see Dr. Jones; I can't seem to…"

Of course she couldn't raise herself on her own, he thought. You'd need your hips for that movement. His breath caught in his chest as he witnessed the first of many things she wouldn't be able to do, but he took hold of her sides to pull her up.

She gasped as he did so. "Oh _God_ ," she breathed, her hands gripping his arms tightly, "my _back_."

Robert froze, frightened he would injure her further, but then he heard the doctor speak. "That's only the muscles," the older man said calmly. Jones moved to the bed to stack pillows behind Cora as he spoke, and Robert leaned her against them. "You've likely had some muscle tearing from the force of the fall, Lady Downton, and there may be some spasms caused by…the other injury. It should ease in a few weeks' time. Ice and heat should help until then."

Robert knew she was still in pain from the furrow of her brow and the way she tightly gripped his hand, but she was not to be distracted. "What other injury, doctor? What's happened to me?"

Robert laid his other hand on her knee, trying to calm her, but then had the unsettling realization that of course she would not feel it. He braced himself for Jones to deliver the news…but he didn't, quite.

"You've broken one of the bones in your back, your ladyship," the doctor said.

She nodded. "Never mind about my back. Tell me what I've done to my legs. How long will they be like this?"

Robert squeezed her hand involuntarily, feeling a pain in his chest at her question, but he was not sure she noticed.

The doctor hesitated. "It's only your back that's been injured, my lady. But sometimes the spine reacts to an injury by… _restricting_ movement and feeling in the extremities."

Was he not going to tell her directly? Robert's mouth went dry. He knew he could not force himself to speak up—what would he say, exactly? _Actually, Cora, you're paralyzed, and you'll never feel your legs again_ —but he could not comprehend how the doctor intended to keep her ignorant. When, in the coming years in a wheelchair, was she allowed to know—or expected to figure out—that her condition was permanent?

"I see," she said, although clearly she didn't. "And how long does this last?"

"I think, Lady Downton, what you ought to focus on right now is rest, and staying comfortable—"

"But when will I recover?"

"That can be difficult to say, my lady. I would concentrate on resting and healing, and perhaps we'll have a better grasp on things after some more time has passed."

She frowned, trying to understand. Half of Robert wanted to take Jones and shake him, while the other half was thankful that Cora still did not know. "When my back heals, you mean?" she asked. "Once you see how my muscles and the bone are healing, you'll know how long it will take? Will I feel my legs when the pain stops?"

"I think that's probable, Lady Downton. For now, you'll just want to rest." She nodded, seeming to accept that it was too early for a complete answer. "Lord Downton, might I see you for another moment?"

But Robert had been looking at Cora, not Jones, throughout the conversation, and he was loathe to leave her alone when she had such a look of pain on her face. "Tomorrow, perhaps, doctor?" he asked.

Jones hesitated. "Stop by when you're ready, sir."

Robert nodded. "Ainsworth will see you out." He heard the doctor's footsteps leave and the door shut behind him. _Tell her,_ everything in him screamed, _tell her._ It made no _sense_ for her not to know, and it wasn't as though keeping the knowledge from her for a few more weeks would make her any less crippled, or make it any easier when she eventually discovered the truth.

"Cora…" he began, searching for the words.

"Will you help me lie flat, Robert?" she interrupted. There was a tightness in her voice that she'd hidden in front of the doctor. "My back wasn't nearly this bad when I was lying down."

It had probably been the movement that had jarred her, he thought guiltily, but he took hold of her again, moved the pillows, and laid her flat, trying to ignore her hiss of pain as he did so. "Is that better?" he asked.

She winced. "Yes. It's not gone, but it's better. I probably ought not to have sat up in the first place; I think that's what triggered it." She reached for his hand again and tried to smile. "I'm sorry to make such a fuss about this. You'll think me too weak to bear your children."

Why had she had to say that? Why, why, _why_? He felt a chill in his body at her words, and he forced himself not to pull his hand away.

She caught the change in his face and his posture instantly. "What is it, Robert?"

"Cora," he croaked, "the doctor wasn't honest with you."

"What?" Her smile faltered, but only slightly. "What do you mean?"

"I think he meant to be kind," he said. "I don't think he wanted you to be discouraged—"

"You mean, it will really take me more than a few weeks to recover."

"No," he said. He fought to swallow—it was as through his throat had begun to close. "No, not exactly. He…wasn't very clear at all about your legs."

She looked up at him, calm and peaceful as she waited for him to go on. She trusted him, he realized, and the thought made him want to run after Jones, drag him up here, and insist he tell her instead rather than force her to hear such news from her own husband's lips. He wanted to lie, to tell her _never mind_ , to tell her he was sure everything would be all right in a month or two. But no. He could be nothing less than honest, not when she was looking at him that way.

Robert smoothed her hair back from her face. "You do have a broken back," he said quietly. "But when the bone broke, it also damaged your spinal cord. That isn't…that isn't something you can recover from. Because your spinal cord's been…cut, I suppose, you're not going to have any feeling below that. And it's…it's not going to change. Your legs…they're not ever going to work again." They were cruel words, he knew, but he could not think how else to say it, and he wanted to be _clear_. "I…I'm sorry," he finished lamely.

She was silent for a moment, and he watched disbelief and confusion and fear and grief flit across her face as the information sank in. "I can't walk," she said numbly. "I'm not ever going to be able to walk."

"No. No, I'm afraid not."

Another moment of silence. "Let me see them," she said suddenly, almost harshly. "Let me see them."

"What?"

"My legs. Draw the covers back, and help me up."

He hesitated, not wanting to aggravate her back again. "Are you sure you want—"

" _Now_ , Robert."

He lifted her slowly with his left arm and pulled the covers away with his right. He did not bother to move the pillows, thinking she would want to lie down again quickly, and supported her with his arm.

She stared at her legs, and he could not help but look, too. They were normal, perfectly normal, and it was very strange indeed to think that they weren't functional.

Cora reached out to run her hand down the side of one, studying it slowly. And then she began to prod her thigh, very hard it seemed, as tears began to stream down her face. "It's true," she said. "It's true. I can't feel a thing, and I keep trying to just wiggle my toes, and nothing happens!"

He was not sure what to say, or what he could possibly tell her. _It's all right? Don't cry? You'll be okay?_ All of the usual phrases seemed ridiculously out of place, so he said nothing.

"I'm going to be a useless cripple for life," she said softly.

"Don't say that." He was not sure if he did not want it said because it wasn't true, or because it _was_.

"What–what are you going to do with me?" she asked. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, but it was a useless gesture, as her tears continued to fall.

What was he going to do with her? It was an odd question, and not at all how he would have considered the future. He had barely thought of the future at all—beyond how very bleak hers seemed—but he would not have thought in terms of what he would _do_ with Cora. "I…I'll find you the best wheelchair money can buy," he said. "I'll take care of you. I'll make sure you have everything you need and everything you want."

She shook her head—he was not sure if it was at the situation, or at his response. "Lay me back down, please," she said after a moment, and he eased her back onto the bed.

She continued to weep, and he sat down and took her hand again. He was, he realized, not sure what to do. It was not only that her grief was unimaginable for him; it was also that he knew her so little, and she had always kept her emotions so close to herself, that he had no idea how to comfort her at all. She had never come to him for comfort before.

Robert was used to feeling guilt for the fact that he did not love Cora as he knew she loved him. He had taken her heart and her money, offering her a mere title in return. And yet he had never felt it as keenly as he did tonight, tonight as her life lay shattered around her. She deserved someone who knew her, someone who loved her.

But in place of that, the best he could do was simply to sit and hold her hand.


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Happy 4th of July to the Americans among my readers! The holiday weekend has given me a little extra writing time, so here's chapter four. I'll warn you that it's dark and angsty, and there's more of that to come, but I promise brighter things are ahead. I'll also give you a warning/apology that some of this is kind of, well, nasty, but I wanted to be honest and accurate about everything Cora's injury would entail. (A few more details about what all this means in terms of contemporary medicine are to come in the next chapter.)

* * *

She woke in the middle of the night, immediately feeling the ache in her back, and she bit back a groan, not wanting to wake Robert. He'd eventually given her some laudanum, which had slowly put her to sleep, and lain down with her after noting that the bell pull was too short for her to be able to call her maid from bed. The drug clearly worn off, but Cora was not sure she wanted to take any more, finding the haze that it had induced disorienting. As though it were not disorienting enough to be aware of only half her body.

In an attempt to ease the pain in her muscles, she moved to stretch, her hands slipping from her stomach down to the mattress next to her hips. The sheets were wet there, and for a moment she couldn't think why that would be. She slid her hand underneath herself and realized that her nightdress was wet, too.

And then she knew, suddenly, what she'd done in her sleep. It made a horrifying amount of sense: she knew when she needed to use the washroom because she could feel it in her body, and she held it in until she got to a toilet through muscles she'd trained as a toddler. But of course she no longer had any feeling or any muscle control. She hadn't even felt the wetness on herself—she'd had to notice it through her hands. And God only knew how long she'd been lying in it: the sheets had dried enough that they were more damp than they were soaking wet.

Cora bit her lip and tried not to cry. She'd come to England with visions of herself as a countess, living as queen over her husband's estate and county, and here she was, less than six months after a grand wedding that had been an occasion of great splendor, lying in a puddle of her own urine, unable to do anything at all about it.

She did not want Robert to know this. She could not fathom how humiliating it would be to tell her husband—to tell Robert, Viscount Downton—that she'd wet her bed. But she was also too disgusted to let herself lie in the mess until her maid came in the morning, so there was nothing for it but to wake him.

"Robert," she said softly, nudging his arm.

"Mmm?" His eyes opened slowly, and it took a moment for him to focus on her. And then she saw his face fall as he remembered. She swallowed, suddenly almost guilty at her condition.

"What's wrong, Cora? Do you need something?"

"Would you please ring for Clemens?"

"Why? Is something wrong? I can get you some more medicine, if that's what you need."

"No, no. Just…please get Clemens."

She knew he could hear in her voice that she was upset, and he lit the lamp next to his side of the bed. They were suddenly bathed in a soft glow, and he studied her face. "Cora, please tell me what's wrong. I'll get your maid, but please tell me what you're feeling."

She shook her head.

"Please, Cora. You're frightening me. Are you in pain?"

"I've…wet myself," she said in a whisper so low that she could barely hear it herself.

"I'm sorry?"

"I've wet myself," she said, louder this time, turning her head away so that she would not have to look at him.

"Oh," he said softly. She could sense his own embarrassment, and she closed her eyes. "Yes, that…that would make sense. I…I'll ring for Clemens."

She felt the mattress shift as he got up and heard his footsteps as he walked around the bed to the bell pull.

"We'll have her change the sheets," he said as though thinking aloud. At the sound of his voice, she turned her head again so that she stared up at the ceiling, avoiding his gaze, tears of humiliation pricking her eyes. "But you'll need to…Cora, look at me." She forced herself to turn her head again, willing her tears not to fall. "You have no reason to be ashamed."

"It's disgusting," she managed to whisper, furiously wiping a tear away.

"It is natural," he said firmly. "You can't help that you can't control it."

Didn't he understand that that was _the point_? She was like an infant, at twenty.

"You'll need to be bathed," he said when she did not respond. "I can handle that while Miss Clemens changes the linens. I'll get started on the water so we can have you out of the bed by the time she gets here."

"You don't have to do that," she said as he headed for the washroom.

"Yes, I do. She can't lift you, and regardless, I don't want to stand by and let you lie in…that until a servant gets here."

"But you shouldn't…" _Lower yourself,_ she thought. He was the heir to an earldom; it was not his place to play nursemaid to cripples who messed their beds.

"You are my wife," he said, a final note in his voice that implied that settled the matter.

She lay there silently—what else could she do but lie there?—as he stepped away into the washroom and she heard the water begin to run. The noise stopped much sooner than she'd expected, and he returned to the bedroom. "I thought this might be…challenging, since you can't stand or kneel," he said in explanation, "so I didn't fill the bathtub very high." She nodded, and he moved around to her side of the bed. "Let's try to get you undressed here."

Removing her nightgown was not an easy process, as she had no way to lift her hips and legs off the bed, and every movement as they wrestled together with her clothing sent her back into spasm. She gritted her teeth to keep from crying out, and soon she was undressed. Robert slipped his arms under her shoulders and knees—how odd to see her legs being touched and feel nothing—and lifted her, carrying her to the washroom and setting her down in the few inches of water he'd poured into the tub. It did not come up high enough on her body to reach any region where she had feeling, and she stared down at it, disoriented at the thought that half of her was in water yet she felt perfectly dry.

She reached for the soap, wincing, but Robert picked it up instead. "I'll do it. It hurts you to move, doesn't it?"

She could not deny that it did, and he began to wash her as she felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment. Certainly her husband had seen her naked many times in the last few months, and of course he had touched her there before, but this somehow made her feel more exposed than if they'd had to consummate their marriage in front of his entire family, and she longed to be covered. This thought brought another to mind: could she ever have sex again? Surely not. She couldn't even control her urination. How could she possibly manage to take Robert's body into her own and respond to it?

There would be no more of the intimacy they'd enjoyed together, no more of the passionate nights that ended with drifting off and waking up again in each other's arms. That meant there would be no babies: he would have no heir, and she would have none of the children she'd longed for.

Did Robert know this? She chanced a glance at him, but he was looking down at her right leg as he ran a soapy rag over it. Surely he knew. He and the doctor had obviously had a conversation that she had not been privy too, and surely this issue had come up.

She heard Clemens arrive in the bedroom and call out, "Your ladyship?" and Robert answer that she was in the bath, but could the bed please be changed? Yet it all sounded like an echo heard from several rooms away, because in that moment, something inside Cora was dying.

It was not the hope of walking again, or of living a normal life; she'd lost those at Robert's words early in the evening. This was a hope that was far more important, far more basic, a hope at the very core of her being, a hope that it had not yet occurred to her could also be in danger. It was a simple hope that she believed common to all women, even the lowest of peasants: the hope for children, for a family she would love and that would love her, and the hope for a husband who would love her, too.

She knew the last part of this had died as effectively as her legs and her muscles and her fertility. Robert had not fallen for her while she'd been whole. How could he possibly come to love the wreck of a human being she'd become, now that she could not satisfy him or give him children? Now that she was nothing more than an infant in a young woman's body?

The thought was far too painful for tears, and she did not cry, turning her mourning inward.

"Would you like me to run some more hot water, and you can sit and soak for awhile?" she heard Robert ask. He had evidently finished washing her.

Her back muscles were in agony, and she was vaguely aware that warm water might ease them, but she could not bring herself to care one way or another. Physical pain seemed very trivial indeed.

"It doesn't matter," she said. Because nothing mattered now.

"Jones said heat would help you, so let's try it," he said, turning the water back on.

 _No,_ she wanted to respond. _No, it won't help me. Nothing will help me now._


	5. Chapter 5

AN: Thanks to all who have reviewed and/or PM'ed me! It really does make my day, and a few of you have given me some great ideas for future chapters!

* * *

"How is she this morning?" Patrick asked. "Have you seen her yet?"

Robert had not been able to bring himself to face his parents the night before and had thus spent breakfast telling his father about Cora's injury. The earl had listened with no interruptions, sighing deeply when Robert reached the end, and had since then only asked the most practical of questions, regarding when he planned to see Jones again and what they would do about a wheelchair and so on.

Robert shook his head. "No, sir. She wasn't awake yet when I came down."

"I'll speak with your mother," Patrick said with another heavy sigh. "I can write to your sister and her husband as well. And to the Levinsons—someone ought to tell Cora's parents. Unless you or she would prefer to write instead?"

"No…I doubt she'd find it easy to share the news herself. Thank you." Robert prodded his bacon unenthusiastically with his fork. He had little appetite this morning. "I think I'll go back upstairs…see if Cora's awake before I walk down to see Jones. There's…still much she doesn't know."

"She doesn't know about the children, does she?"

"No, she doesn't know we can't have children. I…couldn't tell her last night." He stood, folding his napkin on the table. "If you'll excuse me."

"Robert," he heard his father say as he reached the door, and he turned back. " _She. She_ can't have children."

He knew what the earl was driving at, and he chose to ignore it. He gave him a curt nod and left the dining room.

* * *

He found Cora sitting up in bed, listlessly picking at her breakfast. Listless, though, was far better off than what he imagined he would be in her situation—compared to how he suspected he would react, she was practically turning cartwheels.

"Good morning," she said softly when he entered, and he nodded, a bit taken aback at her greeting. She did not look up, though, continuing to stare down at her toast.

"How are you feeling?" he asked delicately.

"Funnily enough, I still can't walk," she snapped.

He bit his tongue, afraid to say the wrong thing, and Cora sighed. "I'm sorry; I knew what you meant. I'm sore and stiffer than yesterday, but it doesn't matter."

He was not sure what to say to that, because the truth was, it _didn't_ much matter. It was difficult to worry about temporary aches and pains in light of the future that was facing her.

"Did you know?" she burst out suddenly, glancing up at him. "Did you know I can't make love to you again? Did you know I can't have any children?"

"Who told you that?" Robert had not wanted it to be kept from her permanently, but he had intentionally withheld it last night and had intended to do so for at least a few days. It was too much, he thought, to make her lose her dreams of motherhood at the same time she learned she would never walk again.

"No one told me. I just figured it out myself. And it's true, isn't it?"

"I…yes, it's true."

"Then you'll understand why I want you to leave me."

 _"What?"_ It was the last thing he had thought of, and the last thing he expected her to say.

"I want you to leave me," she repeated, her voice emotionless. "Divorce me. Send me back to America."

He felt his refusal deep within his body, as though it was something he needed no consideration to know he could not stomach. "I… _Cora_ , I…the last thing I want is to divorce you." But was it what _she_ wanted? Would this be easier, surrounded by her own family? "Do you…do you _want_ to go home?"

"I want to not watch your life go up in flames. I want you to find a woman you can be happy with."

How odd it was to hear that come from her mouth, when she was the woman he'd wanted from the very first ball of the season. "I've already found _you_ —"

"I can't make you happy," she said, her eyes burning into him. "Not now. You won't even have an heir. Please, Robert. Don't let me ruin your life. Mine's already been ruined, but don't make me drag you down with me."

"Please…please don't talk like this."

"Robert." Her voice was strained, and she spoke almost through gritted teeth in what he suspected was an effort to hold back tears. "I cannot fulfill my main function. I cannot do what I'm _meant_ to do. I cannot be your _wife_ —the most I can be is some overgrown _infant_ that you'll be saddled with in place of your own children. _Please._ You _must_ divorce me."

"I–I don't think—even if I _wanted_ to leave you, I don't think this is _grounds_ for a divorce."*

"Invent some, then!" she exclaimed, her voice breaking on the last word.

"Cora, I…I _won't_. I refuse to divorce you—"

 _"Why?"_ she begged. "Why _not_? Please, it would be easier for me…"

Why not, indeed? He had been taught to abhor divorce, taught that it was simply impossible for men at his level, but was that all that made him recoil from her proposal, as though she were offering him a cup of rattlesnake venom? Why was he so resistant to consider how they might dissolve their marriage, when he knew very well how hopeless their future was?

"I gave you my word," he said finally. "I gave you my word when I married you, and again last night. I said I would take care of you, and I will." It did not feel, even to him, like a complete explanation, but it was the best he could articulate.

"Robert—"

"I am going to see Dr. Jones," he said, suddenly desperate to leave this conversation and all its implications. "I will speak with him about hiring a nurse who can help."

She gave an almost imperceptible nod.

* * *

"What in heaven's name did you tell her for?" Dr. Jones stared at Robert as though he were a complete imbecile.

"Why didn't _you_ tell her? She shouldn't have had to hear it from me."

"Because there's no _point_ in that. It won't do her any good to have to think that way, not—"

"No _point_? She had to know, eventually! There's no reason to give her false hope and then tell her two months from now!"

Jones held up his hand for silence. "I don't think you understand, Lord Downton. I had meant to explain last night, but we were called to her ladyship's room."

Robert had known the doctor had had more to say, and he'd come here this morning in order to hear it. He'd given just what it might be very little thought, though—he'd expected to hear more details of how Cora could be cared for, and perhaps where to find the nurse it was clear they would need. "What else is there to understand?" he asked.

"There may not _be_ a two months from now, not for her. I'm afraid Lady Downton is unlikely to live more than a few months. No more than a year, I would say.** And there's no sense in her spending the time she has left grieving that she'll never walk again. Far better for her to have some hope.***"

"She–she isn't sick," Robert protested. The information seemed too inaccurate for belief. "It's only that she can't walk; she—"

"Your lordship, you know it isn't _only_ that she can't walk," Jones said gently. "She can't control anything in the lower part of her body. We've discussed that she can't have relations with you; she also can't—"

"I know," Robert interrupted, not wanting to hear him mention the issue that he knew had so humiliated her last night. "She can't control…urges."

"She has no bladder control," the doctor said. "She can't sense when it's full, and she can't control when it empties. She doesn't even _know_ when it empties. The retention of the urine and all of the…sitting in it, when she hasn't noticed she's wet, make infection extremely likely.^ That's why we lose most patients like her ladyship within a year. Those who don't die of infections in the bladder usually die of infections in the sores they develop from all the sitting and lying down.

"If you sit for hours at a time, you'll shift your position because your muscles will tire, and you'll want to move them. It's the same when you lie in bed at night—you roll over because your body tires of the position. Her ladyship won't do that. It's not only that she _can't_ move; it's that her body won't feel a need. She won't notice her muscles stiffening, and she'll stay in the same position for hours and hours on end. The consistent pressure damages the skin and leads to sores—and of course she can't feel them as they develop, so they're not noticed when they're small. And then infection sets in."

The doctor's speech had felt like being punched in the stomach in slow motion. Robert felt the air slowly leave him, pain seeping in to take its place, as the list of deadly complications piled up. "But…but…there must be a way to prevent all that," he began, grasping for some glimmer of hope. "She can't die, not just because she can't feel her legs. It's…there must be something you can do. I—you have to tell me how to help her."

"There may be ways to lengthen her life, with a bit of luck and a lot of care…but you must be prepared, Lord Downton, that it still may not be a long life."

"I don't care. I'll do everything I can. _Anything_ I can. She isn't going to die."

"You should give some thought to the kind of life she will be living, my lord. You won't be able to take her to town, or even outside very often.^^ She can't go up and down the stairs, she's unlikely to have much of a social life,^^^ she can't have children, she can't fully live as a married woman…there's very little available to her."

"I'll take her everywhere she wants," Robert said earnestly. "I'll carry her if I need to. She'll want for nothing—I'll give her a good life; I'll do everything I can to make her happy." He did not know how he would fulfill his promises, only that he could not help but make them. If he could only keep Cora alive, he'd do anything for her. "I have to save her."

"You may be more sentencing her than saving her. It might perhaps be kinder to let nature take its course…"

"No." He shook his head, almost violently.

"Then you should see a specialist in London, someone who can give you better guidance. I do know she'll need to be moved every two or three hours—place her in a different chair, adjust her position so the pressure's not in quite the same place. And the same at night—someone will need to be up several times to turn her over."

"I can do that," he said immediately. He would already be sleeping with her, at least until the bell pull could be lengthened and made to reach her bed.

"You'll want nurses, at least two of them. She'll need to be kept clean—scrupulously clean—and they'll need to watch her carefully."

"Of course. We'll hire as many nurses as we need."

"Copious amounts of water and juice made from cranberries can sometimes prevent infections of the bladder, so you may find that useful as well. None of this is a guarantee, Lord Downton—it's my opinion that you're only delaying the inevitable."

He swallowed, telling himself he could not accept it until he heard it from a specialist who had more knowledge than the country doctor.

* * *

*Robert is correct that he has no legal right to a divorce. A divorce in Robert and Cora's era required grounds, and there were very specific rules governing what did and didn't count as grounds. An 1890s man could divorce his wife for adultery (which had to be proven, with the other party named), cruelty, or desertion. The fact that she can no longer have sex with him or provide an heir wouldn't be considered desertion: desertion had very specific requirements, and Cora would basically have to return to America for an extended period of time, which would be difficult in her condition (especially without Robert's assistance). Even if he wanted to divorce Cora, Robert's situation would be similar to Michael Gregson's, whose wife is unable to participate in their marriage because of mental illness. Neither mental illness nor disability would be grounds for divorce, so the most Robert or Gregson can do, at least in England, would be to take a mistress.

**I learned when I was researching for this story that it was very, very rare for a paralytic to live more than a year or two at the absolute most before the middle of the 20th century. I was shocked, because I'm used to seeing characters like Matthew in historical fiction, and it's always implied they'll go on living like a paralyzed person today, but apparently, that wasn't the case in reality. The issues Jones outlines here usually killed them within a few months.

***It wasn't uncommon to keep discouraging or depressing information from terminally ill patients. For example, a cancer diagnosis was often a secret from the person dying of it, even into the 1960s or 70s.

^In an era without antibiotics, an infection usually led to blood poisoning and death, which is why it was so easy for paralytics (or anyone, for that matter) to die from a simple bladder infection. (Aren't you glad it's 2015?)

^^Nineteenth century wheelchairs usually did not have tires that allowed them to go over anything besides smooth ground. They were pretty much meant for indoor use only, and the cobblestones of London or even the gravel outside Downton would have been very difficult to traverse.

^^^In the Victorian era, the disabled were considered something of an embarrassment to their families. They were usually kept hidden from view and certainly would not have been expected at parties or other social gatherings.


	6. Chapter 6

AN: A huge thank you to Settees-under-siege for her research help! She discovered Dr. Wagner for me, and Cora, Robert, and I thank her from the bottom of our hearts. ;-)

* * *

"It is nice to have you back," Cora said shyly as Robert bent over her chair to lift her into the bed. In his absence over the last two weeks, the footmen had lifted her and carried her up and down the steps and turned her at night as Robert had instructed, and they could not have been gentler or more deferential, yet she had longed for her husband instead.

As soon as he'd returned from Dr. Jones's office the day after her injury, he had sent a series of telegrams to London doctors, most of whom, she learned, could offer him no guidance in preventing the complications that seemed likely to end her life. One, however, had written back with the name of a German doctor. Wilhelm Wagner* had published several articles on his work with spinal injuries among veterans of the Franco-Prussian War and, more recently, local miners, and if anyone could offer hope, it would be him. And so Robert had dashed off to Germany, determined to bring the man home with him. His urgency suggested to her that the threat to her life was far more immediate than he would let on.

It had frightened her at the time, but once he had gone, Cora had had time to contemplate the idea and make her peace with it. She wanted to live, but live under the terms she had always imagined for herself: a husband in love with her, a nursery full of children and then grandchildren, simply the ability to walk from room to room under her own power… Instead, the two weeks since her accident had shown her how very bleak her new life was, and the thought of slipping away was a comforting one. How merciful, she had thought, that a paralyzed body conspired to kill itself within the first few months. And so she had begun to pray that Dr. Wagner would not agree to return to England with Robert. But of course he had, and the two of them had arrived just before dinner, so now she was fervently praying that he would pronounce her case hopeless.

"I'm glad to be back," Robert said as he scooped her up. "How do you want to lie?"

How ridiculous to be so helpless that she had to be asked this question. "On my right side at first, please," she said with a small sigh.

He laid her down, carefully arranging her useless legs, and then drew the covers over her. "I worried over you constantly while I was traveling," he said softly. "Have you been all right?"

Not _I missed you_ , she noted. _I worried over you._ That was what she would mean to Robert now: a source of worry, a problem to be dealt with, an invalid to be cared for, a burden. "I was fine," she said, pushing any emotion out of her voice. "Better, actually—I think the muscles are starting to heal."

"Good, I'm glad," he said as he removed his dressing gown. Her heart leapt slightly at the realization that he was preparing to stay, even though a rope that she could reach from her bed had been attached to Clemens's bell.

"I don't like the idea of you lying here alone," he explained, following her gaze. "Even if you can ring, it troubles me. You don't mind, do you?"

The pleasure at what she'd taken as affection evaporated. Of course he didn't want her left alone. She was practically an infant. "No, I don't mind."

She felt him climb into bed behind her. "Dr. Wagner will be up to see you as soon as you've breakfasted."

"Robert."

"Yes?"

She paused, not sure she could voice the words and grateful that she was lying with her back to him. "Robert, I wish you'd just…let me die."

 _"What?"_

"Let me die," she repeated, warming to the idea further now that it had been spoken. "I don't want to live like this." She closed her eyes, trying not to think of all the times her nurses had cleaned and changed her, all the times she'd been awakened to be turned in bed, all the times she'd waited alone in a room for someone to remember to come fetch her. "I _can't_ live like this. Whatever Dr. Wagner says tomorrow…just let it be. Please."

"I won't do any such thing—"

"Please, Robert. It would be merciful—"

"There's no mercy in letting my wife die a miserable death!" he snapped, but she couldn't bring herself to care that he was angry.

"There's no mercy in letting me live a miserable _life_ ," she said, her voice calm. She was suddenly too exhausted for emotion. "You don't understand because you've been gone, but this has been two weeks of hell, and I understand why we're designed to die if we're paralyzed. No one should have to go on like this."

"Cora, you don't even know what Dr. Wagner will say—"

"Will he make me walk again?"

Robert hesitated.

"No, of course not," she continued. His silence annoyed her more than his irritation. "All he'll do is come up with some way to keep me from being infected." She knew she was raising her voice, but she didn't care. "I don't _want_ that, Robert. I _want_ an infection. I want something that kills me quick, and I want it right away!"

"Cora, it is not our place to play God—"

 _"Play God?"_ she almost shouted. "You're the one playing God, rushing off to Germany in search of a miracle worker! It's not playing God to let nature take its course!"

For a moment she thought he would shout back at her, but instead she heard him take a deep breath. Silently, he extinguished the lamp on the bedside table, and she felt the mattress move as he settled in for sleep.

"Robert," she began, suddenly fearful. She needed him not to be angry with her; she'd been desperately lonely while he'd been gone.

She felt him move, and then there was a hand lightly pressing her shoulder. "I will not let you die, Cora." His voice was calm and quiet, but very firm and very certain. "You are my wife, and as long as there's someone somewhere who could help you, I'll go to the ends of the earth if I have to. Dr. Wagner will be up in the morning. Good night." His hand squeezed her shoulder, and then she felt him move away.

* * *

"You don't think you can make her walk, do you?" Robert asked anxiously when Dr. Wagner joined him in the library the next morning. He had not mentioned it to Cora, but he knew that certain of the doctor's patients had regained some use of their legs. Wagner had warned him on the journey that this was rare, but Robert had still dared to hope.

The German shook his head. "No, it is as I have told you. I would be extremely surprised if Lady Downton were able ever to walk. The spine has been too much damaged. And so you must take care to do everything I told you." On the trip back to England, the doctor had emphasized the importance of keeping Cora constantly clean, with the nurses checking her frequently—"You must be obsessed with this," he had said. "This is why so many of my patients have lived for years"—as well as the importance of changing her position regularly.

Robert nodded. "Of course, of course." But was there really nothing more? Had he drug this man hundreds of miles for advice he could have been given by letter?

"Yet I think it is possible that there is some hope, once she heals properly," Wagner went on. "I believe your wife, she has a fracture that is…dislocated, I think you say. This will heal correctly only if I can operate on her. The damage that has been done is permanent, and I expect that the legs, they will not recover. But sometimes, once a fracture heals, we see that this nerve damage is not so complete. There are some nerves that might heal. I do not want to promise too much—I might operate and nothing might change—but perhaps if the fracture heals properly, she might recover enough to control the bladder, at least a bit. It must be your decision, Lord Downton, but I am thinking that the possible benefit outweighs the risk of operating."

Robert had not breathed throughout this speech, and he slowly let the air out. He wanted to be giddy, yet he was too frightened to let himself hope for certain when the doctor had been so cautious not to overpromise. "And…and…could she also…could we…" He hardly dared to ask it.

"Ah, you are wondering about the sex, yes?" The doctor smiled. "It is not impossible that the right nerves might recover enough that she might be able to have relations, and she could feel something pleasant, too.** But I would caution that this is not wise, not now. She could then conceive, and there would be too much danger in giving birth. No babies, Lord Downton. No babies. And so I would not recommend sex until your wife is much, much older."

 _Older?_ He thought his heart might pound out of his chest at Wagner's last sentence. "Do you mean…she might…"

Wagner smiled more broadly. "Yes, Lord Downton. I think she might live past her childbearing years—I do not think it is unreasonable to think she could live another three decades to reach that point. Certainly not if an operation is successful. She might even live longer."

"Then please," he said, speaking quickly before he could become too frightened at the risks of surgery, "please do what you can."

* * *

*Many thanks to Settees-under-siege for finding Dr. Wagner for me! He was a real person who did pioneering work with spinal cord injuries (SCIs) during the late 19th century, and he would have been active during the Cobert era. He was able to mobilize some of his patients, partly because he recognized that not all SCIs are complete, and he did various therapies with patients who had incomplete SCIs. A complete SCI basically means that the spinal cord has been severed, smashed, etc., completely, and there's absolutely no function or feeling below the injury. An _incomplete_ SCI means that the spinal cord has been damaged (still permanently) but not completely cut, and thus some function is possible. Incomplete injuries vary greatly: some people can walk, their legs are just weak; other people can feel pretty much normally but can't move at all; some people behave basically as though they have a complete SCI except for, say, a small bit of sensation in their toes. (It would usually take 6-8 weeks to diagnose the difference, so I've sped up the timeline here. I'll also be speeding through Cora's nerve recovery and therapy, which would take more than a couple months in reality.) Cora's injury is an incomplete SCI that will prevent her from walking or from external feeling, but she'll recover enough internal nerve sensation for a degree of bladder control, which is what we need to keep her alive. As a side note, Wagner also had an amazing track record for keeping patients with complete SCIs alive. They still wouldn't live nearly as long as their counterparts today, but he greatly expanded their life expectancy at the time. Basically, he was obsessed with keeping them clean.

**Wagner is wrong that recovered sexual function would be a result of potential nerve recovery. As I mentioned earlier, Cora could already have sex, even if she had a complete SCI. Nerve recovery might give her even more sensation, but interestingly, some of the sexual nerves actually bypass the spine and go through the lungs, so regardless, she'd likely still be able to sense Robert inside of her. (Exactly what and how much she would feel could vary vastly. Paralyzed women are very different in how they experience sex.)


	7. Chapter 7

Cora healed well from her surgery, and, as Dr. Wagner had hoped, there was some slight nerve recovery. He stayed on to work with her afterwards, and she developed enough control of her urges that, by the time he left in November, he thought infection would be of minimal concern.

Her spirits improved as well. She was often still sad and wistful, but she could smile, and sometimes even laugh, and Robert delighted in making her do so. He was determined that she would be happy, and thus he showered her with gifts and attention and promises that he would give her whatever she liked. He ordered a wheelchair for each floor of the house and made himself available to carry her up and down the stairs whenever she wanted, and he promised her that when the weather was warmer and the garden in bloom in the spring, he would take her outside for long walks.

But Robert did not breathe a word to anyone of what else the recovery in her nerves made him hope for. He knew better than to mention it to his parents: he imagined that his mother was privately breathing fire over Cora's forced infertility, and his father had begun to drop veiled hints that Robert would need to find another means of producing an heir. When the Levinsons came for an extended visit, both Violet and Patrick suggested to him that _perhaps it would be easier if Cora went home with her mother_. If his parents knew it could be possible for Cora to have a child, he suspected that it would not concern them at all to be told that the process would likely kill her.

He was even more frightened to mention it to Cora. If she knew her body could be capable of intimacy and pregnancy, he feared her hunger for a baby would far overcome his warnings about her health, and if such a beautiful creature begged him to take her to bed, he was not sure his own resolve would hold out.

For he did still find her beautiful, _very_ beautiful. And he desired her just as much as before—perhaps more so, now that he had no way to relieve his desperate want for her. He would lie next to her at night, his body aching with need for her, as he tortured himself with memories of their first months together and how glorious it had felt to be inside of her, until, once she was asleep, he would rise and deal with his need alone in the washroom.

There was no question, however much he wanted her, of acting on his desire. He had decided as soon as Wagner had first spoken that no heir could be worth Cora's life. He would wait another thirty years for it to be safe. Cora, he told himself repeatedly, was infinitely worth a thirty-year wait.

His decision to keep his wife in the dark about her body's possible abilities was confirmed in early December, when he asked her, as he carried her up the stairs one afternoon to change for dinner, what she should like for Christmas.

"What would make you happy?" he'd asked. "Name anything you like it, and you shall have it."

She'd said she'd think on it, but when he returned to her room to fetch her later, he found her a weeping mess.

"Darling, what is it?" he asked, sinking to his knees in front of her chair. "Does something hurt? Are you ill?"

She shook her head and reached for his hand, and he held hers tightly, his heart racing as he waited for her to tell him what was the matter.

"I want to make _you_ happy," she sobbed at last. "I've always wanted to make you happy, and I can't!"

How wrong it felt to see her fret over _his_ happiness. "Darling, you _do_ make me happy," he said earnestly, reaching up to stroke her hair. "I'm happy every time you smile. I'm happy every time you draw breath—I was so happy when Wagner said you'd live that I didn't know what to do with myself."

She shook her head again. "No, Robert. Not like that. I can't make you happy in any of the ways a wife should. It's not just the–the intimacy. It's—when I married you, I knew how much you wanted a son and an heir, and I wanted to give you that because I wanted to know I'd made you _happy_!"

The words stabbed him like knives, and he pulled her into his arms. "Oh, my sweet girl," he breathed, kissing her temple before she dropped her head against his shoulder to cry some more. "Please don't worry about me. You can't help any of this, and I _am_ happy with you."

His mother, on the other hand, was _not_ happy. Violet had been kind to Cora since her accident, far kinder than she had ever been previously, almost as though Cora were not worth the energy required for waspishness. Yet she had given Robert enough hard glances, and made enough "surely you know this can't last" comments when they were alone, that he knew precisely where his mother stood on the issue.

"You carry your wife around like some sort of doll," Violet said suddenly, a few days before Christmas.

He was sitting next to her in the drawing room after dinner, watching Cora laugh at something his sister's husband had said. She'd had, he thought, a good day, as she'd watched the tree decorated in the great hall, and her pleasure had given him a good day as well. He tried to ignore his mother, determined that she would not ruin his mood.

But of course, she was not to be silenced. "I'm not certain what we bought those wheelchairs for," she went on, giving a wheezy, humorless laugh. "She's barely in them, what with you hauling her about."

Robert sighed. It was true that he had grown very fond of carrying Cora. At first it had seemed merely practical: why lift her out of the dining room chair to set her in a wheelchair, then push her the few feet to the drawing room, only to lift her out again and onto a sofa, when he could just carry her between rooms? But he had soon found himself carrying his wife much longer distances throughout the house when it certainly would have been easier to push her, and he had been forced to concede that he liked to have her in his arms. He enjoying cradling her body close to his, he liked the way she leaned her head against his shoulder, and, he admitted to himself, it made him feel like something of a knight in shining armor to know that she needed him.

But of course he would not tell his mother any of that. "It's easier to carry her, Mama. Why bother with her chair to get her between the dining room and the drawing room? And I think she prefers it this way." From the small sigh she often gave as she settled against him, Robert suspected that Cora enjoyed being held nearly as much as he liked to hold her.

"Hmph," Violet said. "I'm sure she does like to have the Viscount Downton wait on her like she's the Queen of Sheba. You rather spoil her, you know."

He felt his muscles tense at the suggestion that Cora, whom he had seen shed so many tears over her condition and who had been so strong through the painful recovery from the operation, could be _spoiled_. "I'm not sure I see how a woman who doesn't have the use of her legs could be spoiled, Mama. Doubtless she thinks _we're_ all a bit spoiled for being able to walk about the house on our own two feet."

"Don't be angry, Robert. You know I care for Cora deeply. I do!" she said in response to his raised eyebrows. "But that's why I wanted to speak with you about the New Year's house party. I think it's quite all right for it to still go forward, but I wonder if perhaps it might be best for Cora to stay upstairs? It's only that a party may not be quite right for her at the moment."

They both heard Cora laugh again on the other side of the room. "She seems to be enjoying Rosamund and Marmaduke's visit," Robert said, a note of warning in his voice.

"Yes, but is she…quite right for a larger party?"

"What do you mean, Mama?" He thought he knew quite well what his mother meant, but he intended to force her to spell it out.

"I mean, after all these months of seeing no one but family, she might find it intimidating to be amidst so many strangers."

"We discussed it a few nights ago. She's looking forward to it, likely for the reason you state."

"But don't you think, Robert, that our guests might find it…awkward that we had a cripple at the New Year's party? Cora's presence might not be quite…appropriate."

And there it was. Cora was to be hidden so as not to embarrass the family. "I can't imagine any social gathering at Downton where _my wife's_ attendance was inappropriate," he said sharply.

"Perhaps that isn't the right word," Violet hedged. "My only concern is for the family, and the impression it might give…"

"The impression that horseback riding can be dangerous? The impression that she suffers patiently? The impression that we've faithfully taken care of her? Which of these impressions are you afraid to give?"

His mother sighed. "I only contend that it's not very proper to exhibit a cripple at a formal house party."

"Mama," he said, his teeth clenched, "please do not let me hear you refer to Cora that way ever again, and please note that you may expect her attendance at any event held in this house."

She sighed again. "You must know this cannot go on forever. She will need to return to America, and—"

"If Cora wanted to return to America, she would have gone back with her parents when they left last month." How his heart had rejoiced that she had made no mention of wanting to return with the Levinsons. She no longer, it seemed, wished for him to separate from her.

"Did you hear about Beatrice?" Violet asked, and he turned his head sharply toward her at the sudden change in subject.

"What about Beatrice?" He had not had any recent letters from his cousin James or his wife. In fact, Robert had tried not to think of James at all since Cora's accident, not liking to remember that he would pass the estate to his cousin someday instead of his son.

"Beatrice is with child. I had a letter from _Eleanor_ ," she said, spitting out James's mother's name. "Positively gloating, of course."

"How wonderful for Beatrice and James. My best congratulations." He tried not to think that he and Cora would likely have made a similar announcement by now, tried not to imagine her unbroken, with a growing belly…and of course, he failed utterly. _Let it be a girl,_ he begged silently. A son would mean that the child was his eventual heir, and while he knew that was inevitable, he did not think he was ready just yet to meet the boy who would receive his own son's inheritance.

"Of course, you must not think that James imagines himself to have fathered an heir to the title," Violet continued with a laugh. "Heavens, no. I think he knows better than that."

"But it would—"

She ignored his protest. "I imagine James knows very well that you'll remarry. I don't think he could possibly be under any illusions that Cora's childlessness will be yours as well."

"Then as usual, my cousin has misunderstood the situation greatly," he snapped, rising to join Cora and the Painswicks. "Please excuse me."


	8. Chapter 8

"I thought I told you no dancing!" Robert hissed to his mother as she drifted off the dance floor, having opened the first song with her husband.

"And I thought I told you that Cora might be best kept upstairs. This is a formal party, Robert. Of course there's dancing!"

"You don't think it rather insensitive?"

"Having her down here puts enough of a damper on the evening, Robert. We'll not cancel the dancing on her behalf. Go on, now—you ought to be dancing with your sister if your wife is unavailable."

 _"Unvailable?"_

"Here's Rosamund now, Robert."

He glanced back to Cora, who was smiling and waving her hand to indicate that he should go on. He raised his eyebrows, and she nodded emphatically in response, and so he took his sister's hand.

* * *

Cora did not mind the dancing, or so she told herself repeatedly. Robert had protested when the music had begun, promising to speak with his mother afterwards, but she had shaken her head.

"It doesn't bother me; really, it doesn't. Let the others have their fun," she'd said. In truth it did bother her, of course it did, but more as another symbol of failure than as a reminder of fun she was not having. As the viscount and viscountess, she and Robert ought to have danced the opening song alongside Violet and Patrick, and it was down to her that the Viscount Downton was left to hover awkwardly on the sidelines.

Yet hover he did, until the music had ended and he'd made a beeline for his mother, his mouth set in a thin, firm line. It was clear from the conversation, though, that Violet had ignored his rebuke and pressed him to dance with Rosamund, and Cora had nodded enthusiastically, urging him on from a distance. He had spent the beginnings of the house party the same way he spent most of his time lately: looking after her and sitting at her side, and she longed for him to simply have a _break_.

It was not that she wanted time away from him; far from it, but she thought he deserved a few moments without worrying about her needs, and it would give her the opportunity to fade into the background, where she could forget for a moment all her glaring failures as viscountess.

Fading was not difficult at all. When the guests had arrived yesterday, she had felt like a magnet for their eyes, as they each tried to stare inconspicuously at the young woman in the wheelchair. Then there had been the looks of pity that made her cheeks burn, and the whispers about "poor Lord Downton, having a cripple for his wife." But after the first few hours, she became more an object to be avoided than stared at.

Cora had barely been spoken to directly, in spite of Robert's tireless efforts to draw her into conversations, and when she was addressed, it was usually in a tone more appropriate to a small child. Worst were the men and women she had been acquainted with during her season and the early months of her marriage, whose faces displayed nothing more than sheer panic when faced with an opportunity to speak with her.

It wasn't that Cora blamed them, exactly. She imagined she herself might have been at an equal loss for words had she met someone in her condition this time last year.

 _Last year._ The thought brought to mind the balls she'd attended last December, how freely she had danced—she'd always _loved_ to dance—and how easily and happily she had mingled.

She stared down at her lap, fighting the urge to shout curses at her legs. _Work!_ she wanted to scream. _Work, you damned useless things!_ She knew exactly what she wanted from them, knew every step of this waltz, and she ached to leap from this chair, rush across the room, and tear her sister-in-law away from Robert so that she might dance with him instead.

How different tonight could have been. How she would have twirled across the floor in her husband's arms, how she would have sparkled amongst their guests, how she would have turned heads as she glided about the hall as the Viscountess Downton.

How she might have, by this point, had a husband who had fallen in love with her. For while Robert could not have been more tender or gentle or compassionate, and while she knew he felt affection for her, she did not deceive herself that his feelings were any more than those he might have for a wounded puppy. They were not, and could never be, those of a husband for a real _wife_. She was far too broken to inspire a man to fall in love with her, not in that way.

"My lady?"

Cora looked up to see Charles Carson, the young footman who was often at her side, staring down at her. Charles had been most devoted over the last few months and done any lifting necessary when Robert was not present, and she supposed he had had an eye on her since her husband had left for the dance floor.

"Are you quite all right?" he asked softly, and she realized that her thoughts must be displaying themselves clearly on her face.

"I…a bit of air might be nice," she said, trying to smile. "It's suddenly rather stuffy in here."

"Shall I take you to the library, your ladyship? I don't think the music will disturb you in there." She knew from his comment that he was not fooled as to the cause of her distress, and she nodded gratefully.

"Yes, thank you, Charles." She had, over the last few months, learned to still any thoughts of movement if it was not offered to her, but now that she had been given the option, she realized how very badly she wanted away from this room. Away from the waltzing couples, away from Robert dancing with his sister instead of his wife, away from the acquaintances who ignored her, away from the sea of stomachs and hips—how tired she was of having to crane her neck to look at anyone properly—and most of all, away from her thoughts of what might have been.

Without comment, the footman took hold of the bar on the back of her chair and pushed her out of the gallery, down the hall, and into the library. She sighed deeply when the door closed behind them, shutting out the orchestra music.

"Shall I fetch you anything, my lady?"

Cora shook her head. "No thank you, Charles. I'll be quite all right alone here."

"I'll leave you by the bell, then, my lady," he said, wheeling her over to the rope. She was grateful for the thinking, but at the same time, she felt her face burning again at the implication that she would, of course, be completely helpless if he were to leave her alone in the center of the room.

She stared down at her hands in her lap when Charles had gone, examining her soft white gloves and the green silk of her evening gown. Clemens had dressed her as very much the belle of the ball this evening, spending hours arranging her hair and choosing her best jewels, and all for nothing. Her dress and her hair would be the last things anyone would notice against the spectacle of her chair.

She ought to have asked Charles to bring her the needlework she'd left in her bedroom, or the novel she'd been reading, she thought. It was infinitely harder, when she had nothing to occupy her mind or her hands, to ignore the sharp pain in her lower back. It had alarmed her when she'd first felt it last fall—how could she possibly hurt in an area where she had no feeling?—but Dr. Wagner had assured her that pain from damaged nerves was quite natural…as well as untreatable.* She'd not mentioned the ever-present burning to Robert: there was nothing to be done for it, and she did not wish to make herself any more pathetic than she already was.

She toyed with ringing for someone to bring her something to distract herself but quickly decided against it. There was no guarantee that Charles would come, and she did not want the story passed throughout the servants' hall of how the viscountess had spent last night's ball doing embroidery alone in the library.

How long had she sat in here? Ten minutes? Fifteen? Was Robert still with Rosamund, or had he passed her off to Marmaduke and found another partner? As painful as the thought was, she told herself that she hoped he would find a mistress soon. It was too unfair for him to be denied on account of her.

She'd first met Robert on a dance floor. It was one of the balls early in her season, and he'd been introduced by an elderly duchess whose acquaintance Cora's mother had cultivated. "Have you space left on your dance card, Miss Levinson?" he'd asked. "For I'd very much like to dance with you." She'd been so taken that she'd given him two dances, and then he'd swept her off onto the dance floor. It did no good to torment herself with the memory, and yet she'd developed rather masochistic tastes in her thoughts over the last few months, so she closed her eyes and let herself recall each step of their waltz.

"Cora?" The voice of the real, contemporary Robert broke her reverie, and, startled, she spun her head around to see him standing in the doorway. "I've been looking all over for you. How did you end up in here?"

"Charles brought me," she said, evading the implied _why?_

He walked over to where she was seated near the fire, taking a seat on one of the couches so that he was at her level, as was his habit for any conversation. The door, she noted with irritation, was still open, and the strains of music only made her more melancholy.

"Were you all right?" he asked once he was seated. " _Are_ you all right?"

She shrugged, not wanting him to feel guilty. "I just wanted a bit of quiet." There was a silence, though not an awkward one, as she watched him consider asking if the dancing had troubled her and decide against it, reading the answer on her face and in her posture.

"Would you like to dance?" he said suddenly as the first notes of another waltz began to play.

"What?" She stiffened, stung by the question. Of course she would like to dance. And walk and stand up and all the rest of it.

He shook his head. "No, I'm serious. May I dance with you?"

"What did you have in mind?" she asked hesitantly.

"This." Robert stood and then bent over her chair, slipping an arm beneath her knees and behind her shoulders, as he always did to pick her up, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. Then he straightened, carried her to the center of the room, away from the sofas, and began to waltz with her in his arms.

She gasped when she realized what he was doing, and he hesitated. "Are you all right? Is this all right?"

"Oh yes, yes!" she murmured, laying her head on his shoulder. "It's lovely."

Yet "lovely" did not seem to quite cut it as they twirled about the library. His arms were so strong and his chest was so firm, and she felt so safe and cared for and protected and…well, not loved, she knew he didn't love her and never would, not now, but she let herself pretend that he did. And she let herself pretend that there was nothing wrong with her legs at all, and that she was dancing in her husband's arms the way any woman might. All of it made her brave, and she leaned up to press a kiss of thanks to his jawline.

They danced a second song as well, before he sat back down on the sofa, keeping her in his arms so that she was now sitting on his lap. He had held her like this before, but only once, on their wedding night, as he'd sought to calm and relax her before taking her to bed. She was momentarily surprised to find herself on his lap again, but she could not fight her impulse to nestle close to his chest, sighing as his arms went around her.

"Thank you for the dancing," she said.

He laughed softly, and she felt the rumbling in his chest. "I should thank you. I like having you in my arms. And you look very beautiful tonight," he said, beginning to stroke her hair.

She was almost afraid to breathe at the gesture. Robert had comforted her with embraces and caresses whenever she'd cried over the last few months, and he had held her hand and kissed her forehead as she'd recovered from her operation, but otherwise, there had not been affection between them since her accident. Certainly nothing that was purely romantic, as she knew this was.

"You're very good to me," she whispered at last. He may not have fallen in love with her, but she knew that she'd been very fortunate indeed in her choice of husband.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "You're very easy to be good to, my dear." How she'd always loved it when he called her that, and how little meaning she dared to give it.

"There's so little I can give you," she said, feeling the familiar ache for the body pressed against hers. How she _wanted_ him. Her injury had stopped her ability, not her desire.

Robert was silent, but she knew from the sudden tension in his arms that he had more to say. "Cora," he said finally, "may I have a kiss?"

A kiss? They hadn't kissed since last summer either, she realized, and it suddenly seemed very odd that they had not, when her lips were perfectly healthy. "Oh yes, of course yes!" she exclaimed, sitting up.

Robert's lips covered hers, and at first it was eager as he quickly pressed inside, both of them in search of the sweetness they had not tasted for months. And then the kiss slowed, as though they feared to drown themselves by drinking too fast, and their mouths steadily examined every last centimeter of each other, their tongues moving in a gentle dance.

How had they lived months without this? Cora wondered. Had it been this sweet before? It hadn't been, she realized clearly. Their kisses early in their marriage had always been tinged with nerves, and they'd often been hurried affairs, the necessary warm-up to the pleasant duty that would follow. But now, of course, nothing would follow, and the bitterness of that reality made a kiss all the sweeter.

* * *

*Cora's pain is, as Wagner tells her, not unusual. Many paralyzed patients continually feel pain at or below their injury. They have no sensation in the area otherwise, but the damaged nerves are still capable of sending pain signals and often do because they're, well, damaged. There's very little that can be done about it today, and there would have been even less in Cora's era.


	9. Chapter 9

AN: Don't get too used to the two long chapters, two days apart stuff. ;-) These have been in the Doc Manager for awhile; I've just been fine-tuning them. And it may be several days before I post again. I've only got 5 or so chapters left, and I'm struggling a bit with what I want where. (But no, I won't abandon you!)

Also, I've changed the cover picture for this fic, which is something I don't usually do because I personally find it helpful when authors just use the same one for each story so that they're easily recognizable, because sometimes I remember avatars better than screen names. ;-) That said, I found this on a Google image search for Victorian wheelchairs, and it was just too perfect. Doesn't that look like our Cora?

It's a 1911 postcard from Atlantic City (hence the beach, which of course has nothing to do with our story). My hunch is that the young woman in the wheelchair is not actually disabled—that seems _extremely_ inclusive for 1911, especially when you consider how rare it is to see disabled people on postcards even today. It wasn't uncommon, though, for places of leisure to have bath chairs/chairs with wheels available for dainty rich people to spare them the horrors of using their own feet, so I suspect this girl is just lazily enjoying being rich. That said, the chair is very typical of the sort of wheelchair Cora would have had.

* * *

"The crocuses are starting to bud this week," Cora observed as she settled onto Robert's lap on the stone bench.

"Shall I cut a few to bring inside for you?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No thank you, not yet. We'll wait till they're blooming, or closer to it."

It was March, and they were outside in one of Downton's gardens. In the last couple weeks as the air had grown less frigid, Robert had begun to take Cora outside for walks around the estate, an activity that always brightened her eyes and brought a pretty pinkness to her cheeks. The grounds, however, were not well-suited to a wheelchair,* and thus he carried her as they walked.

The garden benches were not particularly suitable for Cora either. There were wooden benches elsewhere on the lawn with backs, but those overlooking the gardens were stone and backless. Cora had admitted to him on their first trip out here that, while she certainly could sit unsupported, doing so was an uncomfortable strain on the muscles in her upper back as they struggled to compensate for the control she lacked further down, and so he always held her on his lap so that she could rest against him. He had made a halfhearted request to his father to purchase more of the wooden benches, but he was not overly eager for their arrival—he found he rather liked having her on his knees.

Robert could not deny that things had been _different_ since the Christmas holidays, since the night he'd danced with her in his arms in the library and then, out of nowhere, suddenly been moved to kiss her. He found himself wanting to caress her and hold her and kiss her, stealing moments alone with her in the afternoons, reaching out to silently take her hand when he was seated next to her, and cuddling her close in the middle of the night after he helped her to turn over. He might have thought it was a substitute for everything he could _not_ do with her, and yet those urges were as strong as ever, and in fact touching her usually worsened them. And so he blamed it instead on the sympathy her handicap inspired, and on the fact that he knew it pleased her—God knew how he loved to please her. Whatever it was, it certainly was not because he was falling in love with her. That would make no sense at all in her present state.

"The sun feels lovely," Cora said happily, her face turned upward towards it.

He kissed her cheek. "I should bring you out here more."

"That's all right, Robert. You do so much for me already."

He did, of course—he treated her like a princess, as his mother would have attested with a roll of her eyes, but it pleased him to think he was giving her the best life he could.

"I was wondering…" she said. "Do you think I might pay calls?"

He hesitated, not sure it was a good idea but loathe to refuse her anything. "Do you _want_ to?" he asked, recalling the awkwardness at the New Year's house party.

"I…want to want to, if that makes sense," she said. "It's what I would have been doing now otherwise."

"And you want to do normal things."

"I suppose so…I want to do _something_. Do you think your mother would mind if I went with her on some afternoons?"

The honest answer here was _yes, absolutely_ , but he suspected his mother could be pressed into it. That would perhaps require the assistance of his father, but he suspected the earl would readily give that: he had been rather indulgent with his injured daughter-in-law himself.

"No, you could go with her," he said. "And it's not unmanageable—we could put your chair in the carriage, and the coachman could lift you in and out and bring you and it into the houses you visited. But do you have…someone you wanted to see?" he asked delicately. After the way he had seen her passed over and ignored, he was hesitant to send his wife out for afternoons of repeated snubbing.

"I know I want to visit Viscountess Branksome," she said immediately. "After she comes here next week."

Robert smiled. Cora had become acquainted with the viscountess during her season, and the other lady had written recently, expressing her sympathy and asking if she might call. Cora, who he realized had been quite starved for social interaction, had not stopped talking about it since.

"Anyone else?" he asked.

She hesitated. "Now that I think about it, I'm not sure if anyone else would want me to come."

He wanted to tell her that of course that wasn't true, but he was not sure he could produce anyone to back his statement up, and thus he merely pressed a kiss to her hair and squeezed her gently.

"Of course, I ought to go see your sister," she went on. "But that's London, and I imagine that would be difficult—"

"We could make it happen," he said, determined. "If it's what you want."

"I think the company would be good for her," she said, and he was momentarily taken aback. He had expected her to say, _yes, I do want that,_ or _I should like to see London,_ or _it would do me good to get away for a bit,_ or even just, _yes, it would please me to see your sister_.

His sister, he had learned, had lost a baby just last month, and he had intentionally not shared the information with Cora, wanting to shield her from any further grief in the world. Yet she had evidently heard it elsewhere, for he discovered her soon afterwards at work on a long letter to Rosamund, a letter which prompted his sister to write to him that, "Your wife has the tenderest heart."

"What is that?" Cora asked suddenly, and he followed her gaze to a rustling near the bushes. There was some small creature on the ground, flopping about in the grass.

"It's–it's a bird, I think," he said, squinting at it.

She nodded. "Yes, I think you're right. But what's it doing? Why isn't it flying?"

And then he knew precisely what was wrong with it. He'd seen this many times in a life spent in the country, young birds attacked by hawks or foxes and then dropped before the meal was finished.

"I'm not sure it can," he said quickly, wanting to draw her eyes away from the unpleasantness. "But never mind about it. Did you notice—"

"It's hurt, isn't it?" she interrupted.

"Well, yes, I imagine some predator has—"

"Could you go pick it up?"

"What?" Was she mad? It was probably dirty and diseased, it would probably peck or attack…

"Set me down and go pick it up, please. I want to see it."

"Cora—"

"Please, Robert?" she said plaintively. "It's hurt."

There was something in her voice that he could not ignore, and he shifted her to the bench next to him so that he could stand. The bird was a very small sparrow, he saw as he bent down next to it, with a mangled wing, and though it tried to get away as he reached out for it, his hands were faster, and he grabbed hold of it easily. It appeared to be too young to realize it could make use of its beak, but it fluttered and squirmed frantically against his hands.

Relieved that it at least wouldn't hurt her, he brought it to Cora. "I think its wing's broken," he said, transferring the bird to his wife's hands.

"The poor thing," she said quietly. It fluttered and squawked at her hold, too, but she murmured sympathetically as she stroked it, and it quickly calmed, emitting a soft and contented _chirp_ as it settled in her hands. "There now," she said, "you're all right. Do you suppose it's in much pain?" she asked, looking back up at Robert.

Probably. "Well, I don't know very much about birds…"

"What do you think we should do with it?"

There was always _put it back where we found it_ …

"Do you think the falconer** could help?" she went on. "Splint the wing, and take care of it? We can't just leave it here suffering; it'll die."

Cora looked up at him, her eyes pleading, and he saw at once what his sister had meant. Her own pain had not made her hard or indifferent or selfish, as might have been reasonable; it had made her kind.

"We'll take it to him and see what he can do," he said. "He's quite used to birds, of course."

He stooped to gather her in his arms again, but she shook her head. "It's all right, Robert. It's quite a long walk down to his cottage. You can take the bird, and I'll wait here."

"Wouldn't you rather come with me?" She'd only seen the falconer's cottage once last spring, when he'd taken her for a tour of the estate on horseback—how he cringed at the memory of her on a horse—and he was suddenly eager to take her somewhere relatively new. "I don't mind carrying you." He imagined his arm strength had increased tenfold in recent months. "Wouldn't you like to see all the hawks?"

"I would, yes," she said quietly.

"Then we'll go together," he said, lifting her. "You carry him, and I'll carry you. He likes you better anyway." She laughed, a sound that pleased him greatly.

Downton's falconer was John Green, a kindly older man who had looked after the estate's hunting birds for decades, following after his own father and grandfather. He was quite pleased at the surprise visit from the viscount and viscountess and ushered them into a simple drawing room, where Robert settled Cora into an old armchair.

"Let's see what ye have there, m'lady," Green*** asked, bending over to examine the sparrow in Cora's hands.

"We'd rather hoped you could splint his wing," she said. "Unless he needs something more?"

"Aye, I can, m'lady, and he should be right as rain once his wing heals. I think we'll have him back on his way in no time. Would yer ladyship like to come out to the mews while I take care of it?"

She nodded, and Robert brought her out to the small outbuilding where the birds were kept, seating her on a small bench at a worktable. He was quite sure that Green could have managed this task on his own, but the falconer prompted Cora to help him hold the sparrow as he splinted the wing, and then he showed her an empty cage where it could be kept safe until it healed.

"He'll need feeding every day," he said, with a meaningful glance at Robert, who nodded. "And it might be a help if ye could come down once in awhile fer that."

"Of course I could!" she said, her face lighting up at the request. "If it would be useful. That is…Robert, could you bring me down here? I know it's quite far…"

"As often as you like," he told her.

"Might ye like to see a few of the falcons, m'lady?" She nodded eagerly and was brought a heavy glove so that she might hold each of the hunting birds in turn, exclaiming over their beauty as they perched regally on her arm.

"If yer ladyship wishes it, when ye come down to visit yer sparrow, ye could work with these birds as well," Green said. "We've just had some new chicks hatch, and they need looking after and feeding."

"You're certain I wouldn't be in your way?" she asked.

The old man shook his head and smiled. "Of course not, m'lady. I'd be glad to have someone from the house down here more often."

Robert, of course, knew very well that there was an apprentice who worked here as well, and thus the assistance of an American young woman who could barely tell a pigeon from a parrot was wholly unnecessary. He could have kissed the falconer for sensing Cora's desperation for occupation so well, and for having hidden any sign that he was motivated by anything other than a genuine need for her help.

Their visit stretched over the rest of the afternoon, as Cora was brought the falcon chicks—rather sweet little things that bore no resemblance to the hunters they would become—and shown how they were fed and cared for, and Robert found himself learning more about the animals in a few hours than he'd heard in his whole life. He did not notice how long they'd been there until he noticed Cora discreetly attempting to stretch her back, and he realized guiltily that she'd been sitting on the backless work bench for hours. He made their excuses (surely the gong would be rung soon, anyway) and picked her up to carry her home, making a note to rub the tension out of her muscles when they arrived. They'd be needing a better chair for the mews, if she was to be spending much time there…

"Do you think it too unladylike for me to go down there?" she asked as they walked.

The truth was that not only wasn't it ladylike, it wasn't gentlemanly, either. It was no more an aristocrat's role to feed the falcons than it was to brush the horses or to set the dining room table. Yet Cora could do little of what was expected of an aristocrat: she couldn't host parties or help his mother manage the household, there were few other ladies who would visit her or welcome her for a call, she could not parade about in London during the season, she of course could not have children…there was little for her but endless needlework, and while she did not complain, he knew she must be out of her mind with boredom. Robert also suspected that she longed to feel useful, and, knowing that she would reasonably have expected to be a mother by now, he did not discount her hunger for something to take care of.

"No, darling, I wouldn't say it's unladylike. Although I don't suggest you invite Mama to join you."

"She might identify with the hawks, though," Cora said. "She's something of a bird of prey herself."

He started, so shocked was he to hear her joking that he almost dropped her.

"Sorry," she said quickly. "I know she's your mother."

"No, no," he said, beginning to laugh heartily. "It was funny; I just wasn't expecting you to…"

She silenced him with an even better sign of her happiness: she leaned up to kiss him.

* * *

*I've mentioned this before, but 19th-century wheelchairs had tires that weren't designed for anything but the smoothest of ground, because it wasn't expected that the disabled would leave home much. The gravel and grass outside Downton is pretty much out of the question.

Also, latifraise asked a good question in a PM that I should have addressed at some point in a footnote for everyone: Can't Cora push herself? Actually, no. Wheelchairs in the Victorian era weren't like modern wheelchairs, which generally have a rim or a knob on the wheels that users can grasp to propel themselves. Basically, the idea was that people wealthy enough to afford wheelchairs would have servants to push them, so why would they want to do any physical work themselves? This doesn't make much practical sense, because while I'm sure it's lovely to have servants at your beck and call, Cora, and most disabled people of her era, probably would have preferred not to have to ring a bell and wait for a footman in order to move forward a few feet.

**No, it's never been mentioned that falcons are kept on the Downton estate, but it's certainly likely that they would have been. Falconry was considered the sport of kings and was a popular pastime for the wealthy into the Edwardian era. (And doesn't it sound ten times more fun to go hunting with your _bird_ than to just shoot at stuff yourself?)

***I tried to find out whether a falconer on a Victorian estate would have been called by his first or last name, but I came up empty. My guess is that it would have been the latter because it's a position of some responsibility, but that's nothing more than a guess.


	10. Chapter 10

AN: Apologies for the delay! I've had a super busy week. I know this is a short chapter, but I thought it should stand alone. And more is on the way!

* * *

"Your conduct toward Cora has been most admirable," the earl said to Robert as they swirled glasses of port after dinner one evening.

Admirable? He'd never quite thought of himself as admirable. "Thank you, sir," he said. "I'm not sure I think of it that way, but thank you."

"Then how _do_ you think of it? Do you not think you've treated her admirably, above and beyond the way many husbands would?"

What "most husbands" might or might not do had never been of much concern. "I don't much think of it at all, actually," Robert said. "I don't think in terms of treating her a certain way. I just…try to be kind to her and to make her happy."

"Yes, and I think your attentions to her, given her… _limitations_ as a woman, would not be the norm in your situation. But before all this, you went to great lengths—extraordinary lengths—to preserve her life."

Of course he had. Was that so unusual? "I merely wanted to make sure she had the best treatment—"

"For which you went all the way to Germany."

"She is my wife. I would have gone all the way to Australia for her." It had never occurred to him not to do anything possible to save Cora.

Patrick sighed and took another drink. "Why is that, though? Most men—certainly after hearing what a disaster her condition represented for the line—would have taken Jones's word for it and left matters alone."

A familiar flash of anger shot through him. "Are you suggesting I should have left Cora to die?"

"No, no." The earl shook his head. "Of course not; you know I've grown very fond of her. But why did you do all that? Why were you so desperate to find a doctor who could give you a better prognosis, when so many of them told you it couldn't be done?"

Hadn't Cora asked him similar questions? Why he wouldn't let her die, why he wouldn't divorce her? "I–I thought it—honorable, I suppose," repeating what he'd told her. "She _is_ my wife. I thought it my duty." The explanation felt even emptier than it had that day, but he was at a loss to explain it any differently.

Patrick raised one eyebrow. "Germany is rather a long way to go for honor, when you weren't even certain Wagner could do anything for her."

"It did not seem so far, not for this."

"And why have you been so devoted since?" the older man asked after a moment's silence. "Is that a matter of honor as well?"

Robert knew he did not think of honor when he brought Cora gifts or held her on his lap or carried her in his arms or took her down to the falconer's, as she'd grown fond of doing. All he was thinking of was how happy his gestures might make Cora, and how happy her happiness might make him. "No," he said, searching for a better explanation, "I suppose it just seems…proper. Good and right that I should treat her well, when she's suffered so much."

His father made a noncommittal, slightly skeptical noise.

"It's nice to make her happy," Robert went on, although he was not sure what exactly they were arguing over. "Her life is not an easy one."

"No, no." The earl shook his head.

"And…and it was my idea to go out riding that day," he said, hitting on something credible. "I suggested it."

"You surely know better than to blame yourself, don't you?"

Robert said nothing. He did feel guilty at times, but in truth he knew that Cora had readily agreed to the ride, and on many occasions, she had been the one to suggest they take the horses out. Her accident could just as easily have happened on a day when she had taken the initiative instead of him.

"I think you do," his father said quietly, and Robert nodded.

Patrick inhaled from his cigar and then blew the smoke out. "Robert, I want to warn you against falling in love with Cora."

 _"What?"_ He was not going to fall in love with Cora. Of course not! What a preposterous idea that he could fall in love with her _now_ , not when there was no intimacy between them. Perhaps years from now, when they could be together again, it might be possible, but certainly not under the current circumstances.

"I ought to have spoken up earlier," Patrick continued. "You must not fall in love with this girl."

"I'm not. I'm not! I don't…feel that way about Cora. It's–it's not that sort of love. If it's love at all." He acknowledged that he felt affection for her, that he cared for her, that he worried over her and grieved for her suffering. And he had grown to enjoy her company very much. But it wasn't love, at least not the romantic sort.

"Are you certain? Because the more I see of you with her, the more I think I'm not seeing an honorable man or a kind or guilty one, but a man who's fallen in love. And that…well, among other things, it would be very inconvenient."

"It's also not true."

"Then I'm glad to hear it. Because what's of concern at the moment is your heir."

"James is my heir," he said. The words felt like chewing glass. "Cora and I cannot have children."

" _Cora_ cannot have children," his father corrected. "You are perfectly capable."

"But I am married to Cora, and I refuse to divorce her."

The earl waved his words away. "Of course not. That's your mother's wish, and it's ridiculously complex and unnecessary. No, what I've been thinking is that perhaps you could take a mistress and have a son. We could certainly settle the land and the money on him, and perhaps we might be able to legitimize him later* so that he gets the title, or perhaps we could even pass off that Cora bore him, if she's agreeable to the plan."

"I–I'll do no such thing!" He felt just as much horror at his father's suggestion than at Cora's request last summer that he divorce her. "It's wrong, it's–it's _filthy_ —and what about Cora? How would it make _her_ feel? Don't you think she feels inadequate enough without me rushing off to a mistress?" He gripped his port glass so hard that he was surprised it did not crack as he remembered her tears before Christmas at the thought that she could not make him happy.

"This is what I was afraid of," Patrick said softly. "You _do_ love her."

"Just because I don't wish to add to her suffering doesn't mean I'm in love with her!"

His father gave him a long, hard look. "However you feel—and I'll leave it to you to sort out—you must see that there's no _point_ in falling in love with your paralyzed wife. It's only going to bring more heartache to you both. There isn't a happy ending to this love story, Robert. I suggest you realize that sooner rather than later."

Patrick stood, clapping a hand to Robert's shoulder, and they both abandoned their port to join the ladies in the drawing room.

* * *

*I am not an expert on English inheritance laws, but it was apparently within the realm of possibility (although legally complex) to legitimize a child after it's born if the parents married later. So for example, Robert could have an affair and father a son, and then when Cora dies (because she'll presumably still die before him), Robert could marry the mother. Or, as Patrick says, they could claim the child was Cora's and even bribe a doctor to sign a false birth certificate. It would also be possible, whether the child were legitimate or not, for the Crawleys to leave him the estate. He may not be Earl of Grantham, but the money and the house could have been willed to anyone had it not been for the entail. The entail exists in this AU because it would presumably have still been signed at Robert and Cora's marriage, but since it was Patrick who drew it up, I assume he could smash it since he's still alive.


	11. Chapter 11

AN: Much longer chapter for you all, as promised! Also in honor of the fact that today (Friday) is my birthday. :-)

* * *

"Cora, are you in here?" she heard Robert's voice call out as the bedroom door opened behind her. "Oh God…are you all right? What's wrong? Are you sick?"

Cora was lying in bed in the middle of the day, her breathing jagged and her fingers twisted into the sheets, gripping them tightly. The pain in her injured nerves had grown steadily worse from this morning on, and by early afternoon it had been too strong to bear it in front of the family any longer. She'd made some excuse to be taken upstairs, where one of the nurses had undressed her and put her to bed.

Some sort of nagging pain in that phantom region of her back that she couldn't quite feel was always present, but today's intensity was rare. She'd had episodes like this before but had been lucky enough not to be stumbled upon by Robert.

He hurried to her side and bent over her, fear in his eyes as he lightly stroked her hair. "Darling, tell me what's wrong."

"It's nothing," she managed, trying to force her features out of their grimace and back into a normal expression.

"No, it's not," he said, and she could hear a rising note of panic in his voice. "And I'm going to send for the doctor." He moved to reach for the bell, but she caught his arm.

"No—that's not necessary," she gasped. "This is…natural."

"What is?" Robert gazed steadily at her, and she lowered her eyes, wanting to cling to one last shred of normalcy before him.

"The pain," she said quietly.

"What pain? What hurts?"

"My back."

The clouds lifted from his face, leaving him looking concerned instead of terrified. This, of course, would sound like familiar territory to him, she realized, as he'd heard her complain before of the stress on her upper back from having to support her entire spine. "What's brought this on, darling?" He began to stroke her hair again. "Where were you sitting? Do you want—"

She shook her head, cutting him off. "No. It's not that. It's—my lower back. Below where I…" She closed her eyes and drew a shaky breath, trying not to whimper as a sudden wave of fire swept through her back.

"But—you haven't got any feeling there."

Cora reached for his hand, eager to grip something firmer than the bedsheets, and he stroked the back of her fingers as she squeezed. "I don't have real feeling because the nerves and the spinal cord are damaged. But because they're damaged, they hurt, and I can feel that."

"But that doesn't make any sense—"

"I know, Robert. I know." She did not have the energy to attempt an explanation of nerve issues she did not fully comprehend herself. "I can't feel, but I can feel pain. _All_ I feel is pain."

"But why now? Why suddenly? You were injured months ago and you haven't had…oh," he said, catching the look on her face. "This isn't new, is it." It was not a question.

"No." She opened her eyes and instantly regretted it, seeing the horror in his own. "It hurts all the time. _All the time._ It's just that some days are better and some days are worse, and today…today has been a very bad day." She could feel tears gathering in her eyes and hear the strain of them in her voice.

"Oh God, Cora." He looked as though she'd told him Downton would have to be sold. _This_ was why she hadn't wanted him to know, but she lacked the strength for lies. "There–there must be something we can do—"

"There's nothing. Dr. Wagner said there was nothing. He said it was normal."

 _"Cora—"_

"I–I've grown used to it," she said, wanting to comfort him. "It's only every once in a while that it's like this—"

"You shouldn't have to grow used to it," he said, his voice raw. "Please, darling—let me do something; let me get some ice or–or run a hot bath or massage your back or—what would help? Tell me what would help, and I'll do it!"

"None of that will help, Robert," she said tearfully. He had begun to look as though he might cry too, and she thought she was more heartbroken by his disappointment at her response than by the fact that there was nothing that could be done for her. "Nothing helps nerve pain. Especially not when I haven't got any feeling there."

He was silent for a moment and then said, "Let me lie down with you." She nodded, releasing his hand so that he could move to the other side of the bed and slip in behind her. "My poor darling," he whispered, kissing her cheek and wrapping his arm around her waist. "Why didn't you tell me this?"

"I'm already a–a helpless cripple," she choked, giving in to the tears. "I didn't want to be any more pathetic. I didn't–I didn't want to seem any weaker!"

"You're none of those things, darling," he said earnestly, pressing a fierce kiss to her temple. " _None_ of them, and you must not say that. You're the strongest woman I've ever known—stronger than any of the _men_ I've ever known. I just wish—God, I wish I could take your pain away!"

She could tell by his breathing that he was fighting tears of his own, but after a moment, he let go of her and halfway sat up, ducking down behind her back. She was at a loss for what he was doing at first, but then he reached an area where she had feeling, and she felt his lips against her back. He'd been pressing kisses around her spine, she realized, as a mother might kiss a child's scraped knee, and she felt a sob rise in her throat at the sweetness of it.

And then suddenly, Cora knew. Robert Crawley loved her. Not as a sickly pet, not as a child to be looked after, but as a companion, as a woman, as his wife. He loved her so much that he'd ignored her pleas that he let her die, so much that he'd refused to think of the needs of his body and his line and his estate and remarry, so much that he'd gone hundreds of miles to find a man who might save her. He loved her so much that he'd washed her himself when she'd wet their bed, so much that he roused himself in the night to turn her over, so much that he carried her everywhere. And he loved her so much that the thought of her in pain nearly made him weep. At all of this, Cora cried.

Then she felt his hand on her neck, gently fingering her vertebrae and slipping slowly down her back as he counted the bones to find the place where she was broken. "It's here, isn't it?" he asked softly, and she nodded, experiencing the familiar-yet-strange sensation of a touch that she could feel only partly before her body dropped off into nothingness. He kissed her there, too, gentle, loving, repeated kisses atop her thin nightdress, just at the edge of where she had feeling, just at the edge of the biting pain, as though he were trying to pull the ache out of her and into his own body. And suddenly…

There were fireworks exploding inside her head, hundreds of them, and she gasped, but the noise was hidden in her sobs. What…what _was_ this? She gripped the bedsheets again, although it was not a painful or unpleasant sensation…and then she recognized it. She'd felt this in her body before, months before, when she was whole, when Robert had touched her to ready her for sex.*

Her heart raced, she couldn't catch her breath, she trembled with her desperation for him…she was still in pain, but she could not focus on it, for this had pushed everything else out of her mind…heavens, how _divine_ this felt! She pressed her face against the pillow, knowing instinctively that she did not want him to be aware of how she was feeling and thankful that he would attribute her gasps and her shudders to her tears. It seemed…wrong, somehow, to admit to pleasure when they could not share any together. And how would she ever explain why she had sexual feeling _there_ , of all places? It was too strange for words.

At last, he drew away from her lower back to press a kiss instead to her cheek, and Cora slowly caught her breath as he caressed her shoulder.

"I won't make it worse if I rub your back, will I?" he asked after a moment.

She could not comprehend the words at first and forced herself to take a deep breath to settle her heartbeat. Her pain. He meant the nerve pain, the pain that she was slowly refocusing on. "No," she finally managed to say. "No, that won't make it worse, but it won't help, either. It's not my muscles."

"But they've tensed up everywhere, and that can't be helping you. Can I turn you over?"

She nodded. "Movement won't hurt me."

With practiced ease, Robert flipped her onto her stomach and then lay down beside her. His large hand settled onto her back, making gentle passes up and down. He'd done this for her before, and while it didn't change what she felt further down, it was soothing and comforting, and the muscles between her shoulder blades slowly began to loosen as he pressed the heel of his hand into them. After a few minutes, she let out a soft sigh.

And then suddenly, the pressure disappeared, and an involuntary whine escaped her. "Oh, don't stop—"

He chuckled. "I haven't stopped. I'm just too low for you to feel it. You're a mess through here, though."

"Oh," she said softly. Her legs were worked several times a week, but she'd gone almost a year without the slightest of stretches, even bending over, to her lower back, so she supposed that would make sense.

She felt nothing as he worked, but she was aware that her tears and her heartbeat were slowing as her body relaxed in response to what she could not otherwise feel. The pain was unchanged at first, and then she felt it grow warmer and hotter and worse. That seemed _right_ , somehow, and it did not frighten her, but she could not hold back a slight whimper.

"Cora?"

"Keep going, please. I think this might be…working, possibly."

"You're doing well," he said, his voice soothing. "Your muscles are starting to let go."

Then she felt the fire, ever so slowly, begin to fade, her nerves calming in response to the relaxation in her muscles. "It _is_ helping," she said after a few minutes, almost surprised.

"I'm glad, sweetheart," he said, and she could hear the relief in his voice. She could hear love, too—how had she never noticed that, all these months?

She was still hurting and didn't doubt she would be even if he kept this up all night, but her back was beginning to feel almost like it did on good days. There no longer seemed to be a shark with razor-sharp teeth biting into her spine, and she sighed deeply, almost wanting to cry again at the relief. "Thank you," she whispered. He leaned over to press a kiss to her cheek.

She sighed again as his hand moved upward, back to where she had feeling. "Robert, what did you come up here for in the first place? Why were you looking for me?"

He didn't answer right away. "Oh, it doesn't matter."

"Well, yes it does," she said, interested now. "Did you want something?"

"Why don't we talk about it later?"

"Robert." She'd been facing away from him, but she turned her neck to the other side so that she could look at him. "Tell me. You have to tell me, now that you've said that." It was clear that he was afraid to upset her when she was already unwell, and now her mind was suggesting all sorts of possibilities that were likely worse than whatever he had to say.

He sighed. "Mama has invited James and Beatrice for a visit this summer."

Why had he been afraid to tell her that? She'd only met his cousin and his wife at the wedding, but surely a family visit was not a terrible thing. "But that's nice, isn't it? Do you dislike them?"

"They'll be bringing their baby, Cora."

"Oh, she is expecting, isn't she? How lovely it will be to see it!" He gave her an odd look, and she knew instantly what he had thought would be wrong. "Oh…you think it would make me sad to see someone else's baby, don't you?"

"Won't it?" he asked delicately.

"No," she said slowly, considering. "No, no I don't think it would. I want our own, desperately…but I think I'd be so glad to hold someone else's that it wouldn't matter. Does it bother you?"

"I hadn't thought of that," he said, and she could see in his face that he was almost surprised at the suggestion. "I'd only worried that it might upset you." She reached out to stroke her fingers across his cheek at his sweetness. "But no…no, I don't mind seeing a baby, exactly."

"Because you don't so much want a baby as an heir," she said softly.

"Cora, I—"

"It's all right, Robert. I know you need an heir. And please know—I wanted so much to be the one to give you that." She said it calmly, with no threat of tears—she'd run quite dry of tears on the subject of heirs and children.

"There isn't going to be anyone else, Cora," he said firmly, and she knew he'd read the meaning behind her words. She told herself often that perhaps her broken body would succumb to illness eventually, perhaps she'd die young, and then Robert could remarry to a woman who would produce a son. Because if not…

"You are my wife," he went on, laying a firm hand on her cheek. "And I have no plans to change that."

"You will need another wife at some point, because you must—"

"What makes you so certain that another wife could give me an heir? What's to prevent me from marrying another woman and discovering she's infertile? Or that she gives birth only to daughters? For heaven's sake, how do you even know _you_ were fertile? Do you think I would have left you if you'd had three daughters and no sons? I have married _you_ , Cora, and I will cast my lot with yours."

"But it isn't fair to—"

"Of course it's not fair. None of this is fair. It's not fair you can't walk. It's not fair you hurt all of the time. What's fair has no relevance here. You are my wife, and I…"

Cora held her breath, trying not to imagine how he might finish his sentence. He paused briefly, a slight frown flitting across his features as though he were not sure what he meant to say, either. "I care for you very much," he finished.

She might have thought she'd be disappointed that he did not declare his love, but she found herself smiling instead. Perhaps he was too English, perhaps he was not sure how to say it…she was surprised to realize that it did not much matter to her. He was not, she knew, given to great passion, and thus it was enough to know in her heart that she had what she'd not let herself dream of.

* * *

*As I've noted many times, sexual sensation varies greatly between paralyzed women. However, it's somewhat common for kissing/any touching with some sort of sexual intent right above the injury to be very arousing. Some sexual sensation can be "transferred" elsewhere on the body, and it's often transferred to the area of injury.


	12. Chapter 12

AN: My characterization of James here is based off the only thing we've been told about him: "He was too like his mother," Violet says in season 1, "and a nastier woman never drew breath."

* * *

"You're certain she won't drop him, Robert?" James Crawley asked. The family was gathered in the drawing room before dinner, and he had passed Cora his infant son but was still bent over her wheelchair with a steadying hand on the baby.

"Of course not," Robert said, his tone strained with exasperation. "You know very well there's nothing wrong with Cora's arms."

"Oh, I understand that. I meant, does she understand that babies are fragile, and she must be careful?" Cora bit her tongue to keep from snapping at her husband's cousin, sure that it would only feed the childish image he had of her.* Since James and Beatrice's arrival two hours earlier, he had been speaking of her to Robert as one might address a parent regarding a very small child—a _Sir, would your little girl like to see the puppy?_ sort of thing. It made her want to slap him.

But before she or Robert could respond to his idiotic question, James went on, addressing Cora for the first time. "Can you be careful, Cora?" He spoke in even, slow tones as though she were five.

"I have held babies before, James," she said, trying to sound as ladylike as possible in the vein hope that her own good manners could induce his own.

James smiled and gave her a pat on the arm. "Of course you have, my dear. But things were different for you _before_ , so please be careful."

"For God's sake, James," Robert muttered, and his cousin, rightly sensing that he was pushing his luck, straightened and stepped away. "I assure you your son is perfectly safe in my wife's arms." Cora could see a vein pulsing in her husband's forehead. Perhaps she ought to pass the baby off to him to give him something to do with his own hands in lieu of punching James.

But then she felt the child wiggle slightly in her arms, and she looked down at it. Two big blue eyes were gazing up at her, and a little hand was brushing against her chest.

"Hello, darling," she whispered, a smile spreading so broad across her lips that she thought her face might break. She had a sudden urge to kiss his forehead but held off, unsure how James might react. And yet she somehow couldn't find it in her to be angry at Robert's cousin anymore. It wasn't that she ceased to see his treatment of her as deplorable; it was that she couldn't quite care at the moment. All she wanted to think about was how lovely this baby was.

She adjusted him so that he was no longer lying flat in her arms but was cuddled close to her with his head resting on her chest, and she thought she heard him give a little sigh. He was listening to her heartbeat, she thought, a familiar sound from all those months of listening to his mother's.

"How sweet they are together," James remarked. "Very touching." His tone implied he was observing a toddler cousin meeting the new baby, but the condescension in his voice rolled off of her as though he were speaking of someone else. But then he went on. " _Patrick_ has brought Beatrice and me such great joy." Cora gritted her teeth at the way he seemed to linger over his son's name. She could not forget Robert's look of rage when his mother had read aloud a letter announcing that the new baby would be called Patrick Crawley, nor could she forget the awkward quiet of that evening's dinner.

To name the child after Robert's father was a deliberate affront that implied far more than familial affection or admiration: it was a near-declaration that _of course_ this child would one day be Earl of Grantham, and oughtn't he to be named for one of his predecessors?** And of course it was all the more of an insult because it was _true_. This was not the overconfidence of a man whose cousin had not yet married, or malicious needling towards a couple that had thus far produced only daughters: it was salt in the wound of the obvious fact that unless Robert remarried, this child _would_ inherit the estate.

"He's a fine boy." Cora heard Robert force the words out and knew what it cost him to say them. She knew he did not blame her and had believed him when he'd reminded her there'd never been any guarantee of an heir, but in her heart she felt that nothing could have prevented her from giving him ten sons if it hadn't been for her stupid spine. It was an almost physical ache to think of what she'd denied him.

"I should offer my condolences, Cousin, that you won't have a son yourself," James went on. "I can't think of anything more tragic." And yet his oily tone suggested he didn't find the situation—and what it had done for his own prospects—tragic at all

"I can," Robert said icily. "Cora could have died from her injuries. We are fortunate to still have her with us." He was holding his arms stiffly, and she knew by his posture that he was fighting not to strike his cousin. Without thinking, she tightened her grip on Patrick, and he began to whimper.

Beatrice, James's silent, mousey wife, made a soft murmur at this, but before she could move to take him, they were interrupted by the butler and the child's nurse, who announced dinner and removed the infant.

"I'm sorry for all of this," Robert whispered as he bent over Cora's chair to lift her.

 _She_ was the one who couldn't have a baby. "No, _I'm_ —"

"Don't you dare apologize, Cora," he breathed, his lips at her temple.

"Oh my," James said as Robert straightened with his wife in his arms, and Beatrice gave a soft gasp.

"Robert," Violet said with a nervous laugh, "perhaps we could have Charles push Cora to the dining room, rather than hauling her about like a farmhand?"

"Or perhaps we could all stop gasping in horror at the sight of a man caring for his wife," he snapped, striding towards the door with no apparent interest in whether any of the others followed.

Cora nestled her face against his chest in thanks and felt Robert squeeze her in response.

"I imagine," James said as the footmen began to serve the first course, "that your involvement in your wife's care may complicate your position."

"I'm sorry?" Robert asked.

"Well, I should expect that it may compromise your ability to run the estate to the extent that you had hoped…when the time comes, of course, Cousin Patrick." He nodded to the present earl, who murmured his agreement.

Heavens, even Cora didn't think that was a concern, and she was more concerned about the demands her condition put on Robert than anyone. "I don't think it's so very complex," she began, but James, who was seated next to her, barreled on without so much as a glance in her direction.

"I wanted to make it clear, Cousin Robert, that you have my sympathies, and I wish to make myself available in any way that I can. Should you like Beatrice and I to take up residence at Downton at some point in the future, please don't hesitate to ask for our assistance. Beatrice can serve as hostess, and I can work at your side on the estate."

"That will be entirely unnecessary," Robert said coldly. "I shall be perfectly capable of managing my own estate, and I expect that my wife will make an excellent hostess and lady of the house."

"Surely that's rather a lot to ask of a cripple, isn't it?" James asked. "In fact, I'm quite surprised—tell me, do you generally allow Cousin Cora to dine with you all, or—"

Cora had been in the midst of serving herself from Charles's tray, but her hands froze at their relative's words. "Now James," the earl began, trying to laugh, "surely you—"

"What a very odd question," Robert interrupted, his voice dangerously calm. "Is it generally the custom in your home for _Beatrice_ to dine with you, or do you advocate a policy of keeping wives locked in a tower?"

"Robert, I hardly think—" Violet began, but she was interrupted by her nephew, who was laughing quite congenially.

"No, no," James said. "Of course not. But I take it that it is common practice for you to have a cripple at your table?" _Don't cry,_ Cora told herself firmly, biting the inside of her cheek in an effort to hold the tears back. _He already thinks you simple._ "Please don't think that I criticize you for it; quite the contrary," James continued. "I think your conduct a fine example of Christian charity—"

"For God's _sake_!" Robert roared, leaping to his feet and slamming his glass onto the table so hard that wine sloshed out. "Cora is my _wife_! I am _fortunate_ to have her! Your behavior is disgraceful, and I will not stand for you to sit in our house and drink our wine and enjoy our hospitality while you _continue_ to insult her!" Cora gave a slight gasp, and her eyes watered again, but they were tears of happiness this time. Did Robert actually think himself _fortunate_?

"I am not aware that I have insulted—"

But Robert had not finished. "You will _not_ cast doubts on her role in this family, you will _not_ imply she is anything less than intelligent, you will _not_ speak over her head as though she is not present, and you will _not_ , I repeat will _not_ , refer to her as 'a cripple'! Neither will you call her by her Christian name when _I_ have not given you leave to do so! She is the Viscountess Downton and you are merely Mr. Crawley, and as such you will address her as 'your ladyship' or 'Lady Downton'!"

Robert settled back into his seat and the two young men eyed each other darkly while the others sat in stunned silence. Cora chanced a glance at Charles, who was still stooped next to her with his tray, and saw that his expression was fixed as usual but his eyes were bright with satisfaction. Quietly, she served herself and nodded, signaling him to move on to James.

* * *

*One of the reasons most disabled people were kept hidden from view in the Victorian era and were considered an embarrassment to their families was the attitude James displays here. Many people assumed that if you were physically disabled, there was something wrong with you mentally as well. Someone who was in a wheelchair was probably dumb and/or unstable, and they were not to be taken seriously.

**This is why I've always found it odd that the fandom has christened Robert's father "Patrick." With the emphasis on family names among the peerage, it seems like it would have been at least somewhat inappropriate for James to name his son after the sitting earl, especially at a time when there would have been no reason to assume Robert wouldn't have a son of his own. I think it's unlikely that James's son and Robert's father shared a name, and I think that if Julian Fellowes ever reveals the last earl's name, it won't be Patrick. However, I've kept with fandom tradition for this story, and it fits rather nicely with how confident I think James would be feeling after Cora's injury.


	13. Chapter 13

Dinner was a mostly silent affair after Robert's outburst. Cora had given him a teary smile when he had finished, and that had managed to make him angrier than anything. She shouldn't have to be grateful for being treated as human.

Once dessert was served, his mother led Cora and Beatrice through to the drawing room, and Robert was left to drink with his father and James. After a never-ending first glass of port, James had the good sense to plead exhaustion from his journey and excuse himself to bed.

"Why is he here?" Robert asked immediately when his cousin had left. "What did Mama invite him for?"

"He's your cousin, Robert."

"Yes, and we haven't invited him for an overnight visit in _years_. He's always been unpleasant; you and Mama know it as well as I do, and it shouldn't have been a shock to find he was unkind to Cora. And why, pray tell, was I the only one defending her?"

The earl raised his eyebrows. "You certainly didn't seem to be in need of assistance."

"This isn't a joke, Papa. I want him turned out tomorrow. Why was he welcomed here in the first place?"

Patrick sighed. "He may very well turn himself out. And while I agree with you that James's conduct toward Cora was terribly rude and uncalled for, it should not be your main concern. Did you pay any mind to how he examined the paintings and the furnishings, or how that simpering wife of his fingered the silver and the china? Has it escaped your notice what he's named his son? For all _that_ was why your mother insisted upon inviting him."

" _What?_ She wanted him to rub our noses in the fact that he'll likely inherit the estate?"

"No, she wanted you to see, firsthand and up close, how set James is on inheriting Downton. You, after all, have the power to change that, and your mother suggested that a visit from James might…spur you on."

How many more times would it be suggested that he replace Cora? He slammed his glass down with a force that seemed to surprise his father, but his sudden anger did not surprise _him_. Not after hours of listening to James patronize and condescend and watching his wife's eyes fill with tears and seeing her hold the son they'd never have and hearing over and over, as he so often did in his memory, her mournful words earlier in the spring: " _All_ I feel is pain." And certainly not after being told _once again_ that he ought to throw Cora away like a broken piece of china that had outlived its usefulness.

"Have I not made myself _clear_?" he said hotly. "I am married to _Cora_. The situation will remain that way. I will not set her aside, I will not send her back to America, I will not divorce her, I will not take a mistress. I do not want to hear otherwise suggested ever again."

He stood and stalked off in search of his mother, who was alone in the drawing room, Beatrice and Cora having both gone up. Their argument was a far longer one—Violet had always been more fiery than her husband, she was prepared to speak in sharp defense of the idea that had always given Patrick pause, and Robert blamed her squarely for James's presence—and it was growing late by the time he left her, nearly hoarse from his raised voice.

Cora would surely be asleep by now if she'd been taken up just after dinner, he thought as he climbed the stairs, but it would calm him to lie close to her and listen to her steady breathing. Yet there was light visible under the bedroom door as he approached, and he opened it to find her awake and reclining on her bed, a nurse stretching her legs.*

"There you are," she said with a warm smile.

"I was talking with my mother."

"Don't be angry with her for inviting your cousin," she said, reading him as usual. "It isn't her fault he's such a boor."

He could think of quite a few other words for James, but he did not answer directly, not wanting to tell her of his mother's motivation for the visit. He wanted instead to take care of her: the urge to be gentle with her after the evening she'd had was almost overwhelming.

"Please leave us," he said to the nurse. "I'll look after Lady Downton." She gave him a respectful nod, and he stepped into her place, slowly bending Cora's right knee up to her chest and counting silently to ten. "I'm so sorry about tonight," he began as he lengthened her leg, relaxing the muscle for a few seconds before he bent it again.

She shook her head. "Don't be. It wasn't your fault either. And you were lovely."

"Graciousness has never quite been James's gift."

Cora smiled wryly. "So I gathered. The baby's lovely, though."

"We'll just hope it doesn't take after its father."

"She's already done that with the other leg," she said as he reached for it, and he took hold of her ankle instead, beginning to flex it in small circles. It was a routine they were both quite familiar with, and any awkwardness between them was a distant memory. They were in some ways far more intimate now than they had ever been in the first months of their marriage.

"I can't say as I really want him to be like his mother, either," Cora went on, starting to giggle. "Did she ever speak, all evening?"

"No, and wasn't it an improvement over her husband?" The comment made her laugh, and the sound lightened his heart.

"The baby really was darling…I loved holding him."

There'd been a bittersweet ache in his chest as he'd watched her with the child. "You looked very sweet with him," he said.

Finished with her ankle, Robert lifted both of her heels and pulled gently on her legs to lengthen her spine. He'd asked the nurses to stretch her back as well after he'd learned of her pain, and he'd been zealous about it himself.

She closed her eyes, and he wondered how, exactly, this all felt to a paralyzed body. "I asked Charles to take me to the nursery after I left your mother and Beatrice, and the nurse let me hold him for a while," she said.

Ah, so that was why she'd been just getting to bed when he'd arrived. She'd gone looking for the baby. _Of course_ she'd gone looking for the baby. He held the stretch for a few more seconds and then set her legs down so he could help her into a sitting position, from which she bent forward as he tugged each of her arms, stretching her back from the other direction.

Then he helped her lie back, took the bottle of lotion from her nightstand, and sat down at her legs, taking the right into his hands to massage it.** He thought, as he often did, how strange this must be for her to watch him touch and move her limbs but feel none of it, and he wondered again what it was like to be in her body.

"How does all of this feel to you?" he asked, suddenly finding it very odd that he knew so little, and that they talked so little, about her injury.

"Well, it _doesn't_ feel, not really," she said, laughing softly. She nodded towards his hands. "I always wish I _could_ feel the massages. That looks like it would be lovely." She paused. "My body does _react_ to them, I suppose, if you can call that feeling. I'm always very relaxed after they're done."

"Do you sense the stretching the same way afterwards?" he asked.

"No, not for my legs…I actually can't tell any difference at all after my legs are stretched. The ones for my spine I do feel, and those are always wonderful. That may just be because there are plenty of muscles higher in my back that _aren't_ paralyzed, but I think…I think I feel something lower, too. In the same region that I can feel the nerve pain."

"But what is it like…" He paused. "If you don't mind my asking—"

"Of course I don't mind! Heavens, Robert…certainly not from you, of all people!"

"What's it like to see someone touch your legs and not feel it? I keep thinking that must be very strange."

She thought for a moment. "It isn't, really. Not anymore. It's no different from watching Clemens fix my hair in the mirror—I don't expect the strands of hair to feel themselves being brushed or curled, and I don't expect my legs to feel, either. But it was very, _very_ odd at first—odder than you can imagine. When I was first injured, I…it was like watching someone else's body, but of course it was mine, and it was so surreal. I'm not sure I can describe what it was like. I don't think I'll ever forget that first night, when you slipped your arm under my knees to lift me and I realized I couldn't feel you…it was just so _strange_."

She was right—he couldn't quite imagine it. "It must have been horrifying," he said quietly. "Were you frightened?"

"No—not then, and not by that. I'd already been frightened— _terrified_ —when I first woke up that day and couldn't feel my legs. That was…" She trailed off, and he knew there was no word adequate to describe the fear she'd felt when she'd awakened paralyzed.

He swallowed, trying not to remember that afternoon. "What does it feel like, not to feel?" he asked gently. "Is it just as though…your legs aren't there?" He'd wondered about this since he'd learned she could feel pain, suspecting that his imaginings of a body that simply felt as though it ended at the waist weren't quite right.

"No," she said slowly. "That is, it was at first, when I first woke up…but I think I just wasn't used to it enough to feel the subtleties of it. I'm _aware_ of my legs now—I can tell the lower half of my body does exist. My legs are heavy…I can feel that there's weight; I can sense gravity pulling on them. And sometimes there's…a tingling, I suppose you could say. I couldn't say where, exactly—it's not as defined as when there's pain. I'm sorry…that's not a very good answer."***

He smiled and shook his head. "No, it probably wasn't a very good question."

They sat in comfortable silence for a time, and he moved on to her left leg. "Robert," she said suddenly as he began to work the calf muscles, "I wanted to ask you something."

"Yes?"

She did not answer and seemed to be chewing her lip.

"What is it, darling?"

"It's probably wrong of me to ask for this…"

"Of course not, sweetheart. You may have anything you like." _Certainly after I've watched you endure James,_ he added silently.

She smiled slightly. "You wouldn't say that if you knew what I was going to ask for. I was wondering if I could have…a baby."

"A…a baby?" He froze. "Cora, you know very well you can't…your body isn't capable…"

"No, no." She shook her head. "I'm sorry; I shouldn't have phrased it that way. I didn't mean _have_ as in 'give birth.' I know that's impossible. I meant, could we _get_ a baby? One we could just raise as our own? I know it's a lot to ask; I know I shouldn't, not when I'm already like a baby myself—"

"You're not—"

"—but it's only that when I was holding Patrick, I…I _so_ wanted one of my own, and…I'm sorry," she whispered and looked away.

"Don't be sorry," he said with a heavy sigh. Of course she wanted one of her own. She was a young woman in her twenties who had always expected to have children; of course holding another woman's baby would make her yearn. But it was, as she said, a lot to ask: he did not think of her as the infant she characterized herself as, but there _was_ always her own care to think of and to deal with, and then there was the complication of the child's legal rights in relation to the estate,^ and, if he were honest with himself, he was also not sure how he would feel about raising some _other_ child when he so badly wanted his own.

"Where exactly would we get this baby?" he asked.

"We'd get a foundling," she said immediately. "There are plenty of children who don't have anyone to love them. And I could do that—I couldn't run around after it as it grows up, but we would hire a nanny, and I could certainly love it and hold it."^^

"Yes," he acknowledged. "You'd do that very well."

"Lady Branksome has a sister-in-law who's a patron of the Foundling Hospital in London. She could arrange for us to get one of the babies as soon as it's brought in—we'd just have to have a wet nurse ready. I thought we could get a girl…that way there's no awkwardness about the inheritance."

"You've given this a lot of thought," he said, slowly realizing that this was not merely the product of an hour cradling his cousin's son.

"I have, yes," she said softly. "I've been thinking about it for weeks, since the viscountess mentioned her sister-in-law. But I didn't want to ask you…I didn't think I should. But then I held Patrick, and…"

"You couldn't wait any longer."

"No."

He fell into silence for a time, and she did not press him. "I'll think about it," he said as he finished with her leg. "Is that all right, if I take some time to consider, and to look into this?"

She nodded. "Of course, of course…and thank you. Thank you for even thinking about it."

* * *

*Since Cora's legs get absolutely no exercise otherwise, the muscles would need to be stretched at least several times a week. This would keep blood flowing to them correctly, lessening the risk of pressure sores, and it would also prevent spasms, which could otherwise cause them to jerk involuntarily.

**Also good for maintaining normal blood flow and preventing spasms, and good for her skin (once again, helping prevent pressure sores).

***No, this isn't like when Matthew tells Bates he can feel a slight tingling, which is the prelude to his being able to walk again. Cora is not going to recover from her injury. (Sorry.) The sensations she describes here are what many paraplegics say they feel. Once you've "gotten used to it," you're apparently somewhat aware of your legs, and tingling is fairly common.

^Adoption in the nineteenth century was generally an informal thing. If a couple took in a baby and raised it as their own, it was considered their child for most purposes, but legal documentation was rare. So with an earl who has a title and an estate at stake, it would have been very messy indeed.

^^Foundlings were occasionally orphans, but more often they were children like Marigold. (Or probably more like Ethel's son, Charlie...wealthy women had better ways of settling their children.) Illegitimacy was not only a stain on the mother; it had significant consequences for the child as well, so the thinking was that children would be better off raised in a foundling home than by their single mothers with the accompanying stigma. Solely in terms of the economic opportunities and social standing available to them as adults and adolescents, this was probably true, but emotionally and psychologically, it was a disaster. Foundling homes didn't intentionally mistreat children, but they were strict, bleak, loveless institutions. Physical needs were mostly met, but not much else.

When babies first arrived, they were usually farmed out to a wet nurse who fed them and looked after them for the first couple years. This was the nearest thing to a mother they would have, but once they were old enough to be weaned, they were returned to the foundling home and usually never saw their wet nurse again. People who grew up in foundling homes (which existed well into the twentieth century) tell stories of how the little ones would scream all night for their "mothers" in the beginning.

It should be noted that the Victorians wouldn't have seen foundling homes in the heartbreaking, horrible way we do today. They would have understood that these children probably weren't as happy as those growing up in families, but this was considered better than the alternative, and the homes were generally viewed as good charities doing important, helpful work for society. They usually had aristocrats (like Viscountess Branksome's relative) for their patrons. So while Robert and Cora would be saving a child from a terrible fate by adopting it, they wouldn't fully understand this. Cora probably understands, in rather vague terms, that kids in foundling homes didn't get much personal attention, were never hugged, etc., and thus her comment about being able to love the child, but there was far less understanding of the importance of the early years in healthy emotional development. The attitude was more "that's unfortunate but can't be helped" than "this is unspeakably cruel and a recipe for emotionally damaged adults."


	14. Chapter 14

AN: Violet's sister has a small but significant cameo appearance in the next two chapters, so, as Violet says to her granddaughters in season 2, please "remember your great-aunt Roberta. She loaded the guns at Lucknow." It's my headcanon that this great-aunt Roberta was both Violet's older sister and Susan MacClare's mother. She made her younger sister, who deeply admired her and named her son after her, look like a pushover by comparison.

Also, we've had a lot of angst and a lot of fighting lately...so here's a chapter of happy Robert and Cora with no one poking at them for an afternoon. ;-)

* * *

The summer slipped by as Robert waffled back and forth about adopting a foundling. It was not so much that he _dis_ liked the idea as that it was such a very foreign concept that he wasn't at all sure what to do with it, and thus he was doing nothing.* He knew it would make Cora happy, he thought it would be good for her, he didn't _mind_ the idea of a baby…but…but…but there were so very many _buts_.

In August, the Crawleys journeyed north to Scotland for ten days at Duneagle Castle, the home of Robert's cousin Susan, Countess of Newtonmore,** and her young husband and his parents. Susan was the daughter of Violet Crawley's sister, and Aunt Roberta and her husband had arrived at Duneagle as well. The trip had made for a never-ending day of travel by carriage and train, and Robert could tell by Cora's strained expression that none of it was easy on her body.

Nor was it easy on her mind. He had not thought of it beforehand, but the carriage ride down to the Downton train station had been the first time she had seen a horse since last summer. She had shivered slightly at the sight of the animal and looked away, and he had reached immediately for her hand. "I'm not _afraid_ of him," she'd said. "It's only that it makes me remember my fall, and I don't like to think of that."

He had thought she'd forgotten the encounter once they'd arrived and settled in, but her subconscious clearly had not, for he awakened that night to the sound of muffled sobs as she wept into her pillow. She'd had a nightmare, she admitted, about last July's ride, but he learned as he stroked her hair and drew her into telling him more that it wasn't at reliving the accident that she cried, but at the first part of the dream, at the memory of walking into the stables and taking her last steps. "The worst dreams," she whispered through her tears, breaking his heart anew, "are the ones where I dream I'm walking."

He had taken her out alone the next day, not wanting to throw her immediately into the zoo that was his extended family. He worried about Susan and Aunt Roberta's affinities for caustic remarks and thought Cora would handle it best if given time to recover from the journey first. And so they were spending a warm afternoon enjoying Shrimpy's small boat on the nearby loch.

"Robert, do you think I might go for a swim?" Cora asked shyly.

"What did you have in mind?" he asked. He had long ceased to point out why she _couldn't_ do something, having learned that nearly everything was manageable with a bit of thought.

"Well, I don't mean _really_ swim, of course. I just meant get into the water and float for a bit. I'd wear a lifejacket, obviously." He didn't answer at first—even with a lifejacket, the idea of Cora bobbing along in the water, unable to use her legs, troubled him immensely. "I used to swim in the ocean all the time in Newport," she continued wistfully, looking longingly at the water.

He sighed. He knew she was hot under all of her skirts and petticoats, and he did not doubt that she longed for a reminder of her old life in America, as well as for a hint of normalcy.

"You haven't got anything to swim in," he said, feeling himself weaken.

She shrugged. "I could just take my clothes off and swim in my chemise."

"Cora!" he exclaimed, shocked. "You can't—not out here—"

"Oh, don't be so proper. Who's going to see me?"

They were on quite a secluded part of the loch, but… "No one, but suppose someone were to come along…"

"Then they wouldn't see my legs, because they'll be underwater, and they wouldn't see my top, because I'll be covered in a lifejacket. Please, Robert? It would be ever so nice."

He did not like to refuse her anything, but what troubled him more was the fact that, were she not crippled, she could simply take her own clothes off and dive into the water, no permission needed. Denying her something she should not have had to ask for made him feel more like her father than her husband.

"All right, but I am going in with you," he conceded. "And we'll get you in and out quickly before the whole world's seen you."

The wide smile that spread immediately across her face told him he'd made the right decision, and he began to unlace her dress. "And what are you going to swim in?" she asked mischievously as he worked.

"My clothes," he said. He'd given it no thought, but he didn't have to. "I'm not removing anything but my shoes and my socks and my jacket."

She giggled, and he soon had her undressed, the boat littered with feminine clothing. Why did women wear so many clothes? He'd wondered this many times in the last year, often noting as he lifted Cora that half her weight was her skirts.

Yet having her sit before him in only her chemise made her seem as though she might as well be naked, and with a furtive glance around that provoked an eye-roll from her, he quickly wrapped her in the life jacket. Then, wanting to get in the water as soon as she did, he took off the articles of clothing he'd said he would.

"Are you ready?" he asked, lifting her. Cora nodded eagerly.

But he wasn't, he realized as he stood at the edge of the boat with his wife in his arms. Dropping her into the loch went against every fiber of his being, and he tightened his grip and stared at the water.

"Robert?" she attempted after a moment.

"Cora, I'm not so sure that—"

"Oh _please_? I'll be perfectly fine. I'll float; I've got a _lifejacket_ on. And you're coming in right after me." He nodded, and holding his breath, stooped down to lower her into the water. Her deadened legs dropped rather ungracefully beneath the surface, but the jacket caught the rest of her body, and she bobbed next to the little boat, reaching out to grasp the side of it.

"See?" she said, smiling. "Just fine. And the water feels wonderful." But he was already slipping in next to her, frightened to leave her alone for more than a few seconds.

"Do you want me to swim around a bit and try to pull you with me?"

She chewed her lip and did not answer.

"I don't mind," he said. "You can't pull me under—and if it's too difficult for me to stay afloat, I'll stop."

"No," she said slowly. "I'm not worried about that; I was just wondering, now that I'm in the water…"

"What?"

Without another word, she let go of the boat, pushing off it slightly. Then she began to move her arms in something near a breaststroke, and, ever so slowly, she began to swim, inching forward, away from him and the boat. She could…swim? On her own? With no one's assistance?***

He watched, stunned, until she stopped and turned back to him, her lip trembling.

"Cora?" He hurriedly swam towards her, reaching her as her tears began to spill over.

"I'm all right," she whispered, smiling and wiping her eyes as the tears continued to flow. "It's only—I wouldn't have thought I could—and I didn't think I'd ever move on my own again."

"Oh darling…" He kissed her cheek, remembering her words last night. He knew he could not quite comprehend what it would be like not to be able to cross a room—or even move forward a few inches—without calling for help, what it would be like to be held prisoner by one's own body.

But Cora blinked her tears away and then was off again, swimming freely and taking slow laps around the boat, and they spent a happy afternoon laughing and splashing and floating in the loch. It was another world, suddenly, to have her moving without his help, to act almost as equals here. When they tired, he climbed back into the boat and drew her back in after him, trying not to think of how her soaked, nearly see-through chemise clung to her body.

"That was wonderful," she said as he seated her on the bench and began to help her dry off. He could hear tears threatening again, but she was beaming from ear to ear. "I felt so… _free_. It wasn't quite like walking, but…almost. And just to be _vertical_ …I hadn't realized how much I'd missed that. I'm sorry." She wiped her eyes and gave a shaky laugh. "I don't mean to be so emotional over a swim."

"Of course you're emotional," he said. He was feeling a tightness in his own throat at her words. "And when we get back to England, I'll have a pool built at Downton," he went on, inventing wildly as he spoke. "With a roof. An indoor bath that you can use all year."

"Can we–can we afford that?" she asked.

"We will afford it," he said, kissing her forehead. It didn't matter what it cost—he'd sell every painting and vase in the abbey if he had to.

* * *

*Adoption in the Victorian era was nowhere near the widespread thing it is today. There were certainly people who took in the children of relatives or friends, like Mr. Drewe pretends to be doing, and there were also childless couples like the family Edith finds in Switzerland who adopted babies from people they didn't know, but it was still comparatively rare. Most infertile couples wouldn't have thought, as they often do today, "Hey, why don't we adopt?" It simply wasn't a common thing to do, and thus I don't think Robert's immediate response would be a yes or no, but more of a, "Cora wants to do _what_?"

**Shrimpy and Susan's son, James, is referred to as the Earl of Newtonmore, so I assume this would have been Shrimpy's title before his own father died.

***Yes, it's possible to swim with your legs paralyzed. (Isn't that cool?) You don't even really need a lifejacket—once you've learned to do it properly, you can keep yourself above water just as well as an able-bodied person. However, I have taken some artistic liberties with this scene. Learning to swim without using your legs does take practice and coaching, so it's a bit unrealistic for Cora to be able to do it so well on her first try. (Although having been a strong swimmer in her childhood would certainly work in her favor.) Also, it's not really safe for someone like Cora to be swimming in water as cool as a Scottish loch probably is. Paralysis usually means that you have trouble regulating your body temperature below your injury, so if Cora were dropped into cold water, hypothermia could occur. At the very least, she wouldn't be comfortable very long. But I decided to set all of that aside for the sake of the story.


	15. Chapter 15

"I'm sure you can see the scale of our problem," Violet said to her sister over tea on their third afternoon in Scotland.

"Heavens, yes," Roberta said. "I hadn't understood—I thought Robert was merely hung up on some noble idea of being honorable. But the boy's head over heels for his crippled wife."

Violet sighed. "You know, he tells Patrick he isn't in love with her. As though it isn't obvious to anyone with eyes."

"Of course it's obvious to the rest of us, but I'd wager he believes his own lie. I won't say your boy isn't clever—head and shoulders above my Michael when they were at Eton—but getting him to see what he doesn't understand is like talking to a lump of sugar," Roberta said, dropping one into her cup. "He's frightfully thick when he wants to be. But the question, Violet, is not whether Robert sees he's in love. The question is what you're going to do about it."

"What I'd _like_ to do is what I've always wanted to do: send the girl back to New York and have Robert divorce her for desertion so that he can remarry, but of course that's not going to happen."

Roberta took a thoughtful sip of her tea. "I take it you've not mentioned this to either of them?"

"Of course not—not directly. It ought to be their own idea—and for a time, in the beginning, I thought it would be. The girl was miserable—"

"As one would be, if one had just lost the use of one's legs," Roberta remarked drily.

"—and she told Robert he ought to divorce her. I thought that would be the end of it—he'd soon get over his sense of honor as the thing lost its novelty, and once he realized how useless she was, he'd go along with it and send her away."

"But you hadn't figured on him falling for her."

"Of course not!" Violet shuddered, clutching her teacup. The whole thing was nothing short of _unnatural_. It was improper enough for Robert to feel such obvious affection for his wife, but the thought that the wife in question was a strange half-of-a-woman in a wheelchair frankly made Violet's skin crawl. "She's a _cripple_ —what's he doing falling for a cripple?"

"These things aren't always rational, Violet. That's what makes them so dangerous."

"It's extremely dangerous!" Violet leaned forward earnestly. "Can you imagine passing the house off to pompous little James?"

"Eleanor's boy?" Roberta wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"Yes, it's too ridiculous for words. Robert must remarry, and I'm not prepared to wait and hope Cora dies before him, with enough time for him to marry again, and to a woman young enough to still give him a son. But there's no chance _now_ that he'll agree to send her away and divorce her. Nor do I think she is much interested in going: I think she's come to enjoy herself here. I think it rather pleases her to have a viscount at her beck and call. You've seen how he carries her about—like the manservant of some little Oriental princess whose feet can't touch the floor. Nor do I see why we bother to employ footmen, with the way he fetches for her."

Roberta sniffed. "The whole affair is too ridiculous for words. But you're quite right that the girl isn't going to return home of her own free will, not now."

"I'd like to get back to the Cora we had last summer," Violet admitted. "Not that I wish her to be miserable, but this would all be much more easily accomplished if she were sad and withdrawn again. I think Robert could lose interest, if that were the case. And on the other hand, if Robert _did_ lose interest, that would be enough to make her sad and withdrawn and ready to leave, but I don't know that I can produce one of those without the other. I've got a dinner party planned when we return home with a slew of eligible young women on the guest list, but I don't deceive myself that Robert's going to fall for one of them unless something changes—"

"What we need," Roberta interrupted, "is for Cora to believe _now_ that Robert's disinterested, that she's become a burden, that in his heart of hearts he'd prefer to remarry. That doesn't have to be the reality for her to believe it. And once we have her believing it, she'll pull away from him, and you can bring in a pack of healthy, bright-eyed girls who may seem quite attractive in contrast to the sallow, depressed creature he's got upstairs. From there it'll all take some managing, but I have no doubt you can handle it. We can set the wheels in motion this week."

Violet set her cup down, leaning closer to her sister. "I take it you have a method for making Cora believe this? She's got eyes, too, you know—she can see the look of slavish devotion on the boy's face."

"True, but I imagine her to be quite insecure, don't you? She knows she can't fully be his wife, she knows she can't bear children, she likely feels guilty…I don't think she'd be hard to push to suspicion."

Violet frowned. She did not doubt Roberta's ability to observe a situation and grasp it in hand immediately, but… "I'm not sure how effective this will all be, coming from me—"

"Heavens, Violet, whatever gave you the impression _you'd_ be speaking with the girl? Certainly not! She knows you've never favored the marriage, even when she was whole. What we need is a neutral party—someone who can befriend Cora, someone who seems to have her best interest at heart. Susan would be ideal—they're close in age, and she's Robert's cousin and would seem to know him, but of course she'd have no interest in passing false rumors about him, as far as Cora's concerned."

"Do you think she'd do it?" From what Violet knew of her niece, she imagined she would, if only out of the pure joy the girl took in spite.

"Of course she would. You know what her marriage is like, and if the storm clouds on her face when Robert speaks to his wife are any indication, she's more jealous than she knows what to do with. I think she'd be quite willing to drive in the knife."


	16. Chapter 16

On the morning of their departure a week later, Cora had been parked outside and was watching as servants loaded the carriages that would take the Downton party to the train station. "The others will be along shortly, milady," Clemens had said when she'd left her. "I won't be but a moment more myself, once I get your cases finished."

Cora knew very well that she'd been put here to get her out of the way on an otherwise-busy morning, left by the carriages to be hoisted in later, rather like a piece of luggage herself. Yet it fit her mood, and she did not much mind—if Robert's cousin Susan were to be believed, and it seemed that she should be (for what motive would she have to lie?), then Cora was fast becoming a burden.

"Is something wrong, Cora?"

She looked up to see Robert approaching and tried to smile. She hadn't realized her feelings were showing so clearly on her face. "Of course not. I'm quite all right."

He smiled back and came closer to take her hand. "Are you certain? You seemed sad yesterday as well."

Of course she had. It had only been yesterday at tea that Susan, who had been so friendly and so kind and taken Cora under her wing so readily, had drawn her aside. "I do hope you're all right," she'd said. "I've just heard about the dinner, and—it's not that I was shocked; I knew Robert wanted—but I hadn't realized it would be quite so… _public_ , and in front of you, too."

"What dinner?" Cora had a vague memory of a party on the calendar for a few weeks after they returned home, but she couldn't imagine why it should so trouble her.

"Oh, had you not…? I'm so sorry; I ought not to have said anything! Come now, let's forget all about it—"

But Cora had been able to do nothing of the sort, not when she'd seen the look of horror on Susan's face. "No, you must tell me. Please…"

Susan hesitated. "I suppose you really ought to know…and this way, it won't be such a shock…"

" _What_ won't be?"

"Cora, darling…Robert's planning to take a mistress."

"No, he's not." Cora shook her head, not in the least bit of doubt. This could be nothing more than a misheard rumor. "That's preposterous."

"I know it's hard for you to imagine, my dear…especially when you've already suffered so very much," Susan said sympathetically. "But I've known for some time now. It's known in the family…it's known in our circles, generally…that's why I thought you would know. Surely you did at least know it was a common custom among the upper classes?"

"Yes, but—"

"And with your condition, obviously… My dear, I don't wish you to be hurt, but I'm sure you understand that caring for you has been very difficult for Robert."

"I do," she said quietly. "I hate it for him—it's not fair he's stuck with a cripple for a wife."

Susan patted her arm. "Dearest, you mustn't blame yourself. Anyone might have a fall—when you're new to riding, it's easy to misjudge those fences. It couldn't have been carelessness; you were inexperienced."

But she hadn't been new or inexperienced. Cora had ridden in New York, and she'd not been unfamiliar with the Downton course. She'd always regarded her fall as a terrible accident, as rotten luck, as something she could not have prevented. But had she been careless? Should she have known her speed and distance wasn't sufficient for the fence? She gulped, feeling as though she were trying to swallow a boulder at the idea that she had done this to herself, done this to Robert, through her own stupidity or distraction.

Susan made a soft shushing noise and rubbed her arm.

Cora raised her eyes to the ceiling, trying to force her tears not to fall. "What about this dinner?" she asked after a moment.

"Well, I'm sure you knew your mother-in-law was hosting a dinner party soon?" Susan said quietly.

Cora nodded.

"I've learned that Robert's handpicked most of the guest list. It's nearly all eligible young women—the ones he's interested in."

"Eligible? Aren't mistresses in aristocratic circles usually married?" Cora asked, clinging desperately to a way to discredit the rumor.

"Well…" Susan bit her lip.

"Please don't keep anything from me."

"Generally…yes, they are. Married women who've already given their husband an heir or two." Susan sighed. "But Cora…that's when the mistress is to remain a mistress. Robert has hopes of a second wife someday."

"He means to divorce me." She'd begged him for that last summer, and it had hurt then…but it was twice as painful now, as though she'd been stabbed with a knife coated in acid.

Susan's silence had told her all she needed to know, and she'd pleaded a headache until dinner so that she could cry alone in her room. She did not need Robert's extended family bearing witness to her humiliation, and she certainly did not want her husband himself to see her tears.

Because this was what she wanted for him, she told herself repeatedly. She wanted him to be happy, and he deserved so much more than her broken body could give him. He should not have to know that it grieved her, should not have to bear the guilt of breaking her heart. When he at last told her that he wanted her to return to America, she would smile and nod and agree to accept fault in the divorce without a word of objection.

"Cora?" Robert asked when she did not answer him, and the noise yanked her back to the present.

She shook her head. "No, I'm not sad."

"Good." He gave her another smile and took a seat on the front steps of the castle so that he was more or less level to her chair. "I hope you haven't been out here long."

Another shake of her head. What did it matter?

He began to talk, and she guided him onto yesterday's hunt, a subject where little was required of her beyond nods and smiles. Eventually, the rest of the cases were loaded and they were joined by the rest of the family, goodbyes were said, and Robert lifted Cora to put her into the carriage. She blushed as he did so, hearing Susan's words: _I'm sure you understand that caring for you has been very difficult for Robert_. He ought to leave this sort of thing for the servants—there were plenty of Duneagle footmen present—rather than letting himself feel so obligated. Perhaps he would not have tired of her so soon if he had not let himself do so much for her, so often.

"Would you like me to sit next to you again so I can help support you?" he asked as he settled her on the seat.

He had done so on the way here, realizing that bouncing along on the rough roads made sitting up a struggle for her, and it had been a great relief to her spine when he had moved to sit beside her and steady her with his arms. She hated the thought of it now—not because it was so difficult for him to hold onto her for the forty minutes it would take to reach the train, but because it was yet another demonstration of how constantly he had to think of her, and how helpless she truly was.

"I'm all right," she said. "You don't have to."

"Yes, but it's easier for you, isn't it?" He took a seat next to her. "And it's no trouble."

When the carriage began to move—Cora closing her eyes momentarily at the dreaded clip-clop of the horses' hooves—Robert slipped one arm behind her, taking firm hold of her hip, and clasped his other hand on her other side. "Does that feel all right?" he asked. "Do you feel steady?"

She nodded, trying to ignore the irony that she didn't know how she'd ever feel steady again.

"I know traveling's hard on you, darling," he said, kissing her temple softly. "I'll rub your back for you when we get home tonight."

Why must he do this? Why must he pretend to be in love with her? Was it an attempt to spare her feelings? And yet it did not seem to be a pretense, not when she considered the last year, not when she remembered the day last spring when she'd first realized it. Perhaps he _had_ loved her—perhaps he even _still_ loved her—but he had finally realized that loving her wasn't enough, not when she could give him so little in return, not when she was so broken.

Somehow this thought hurt more than anything else—that he had fallen in love with her, that they could have and would have been happy, but that it would not last because of her accident, because of her own stupidity on a horse. She was suddenly blinking back tears at the thought of the life she might have had with him.

"I wish you would tell me what's wrong," he said softly, and she knew he'd seen them. She cast about wildly for a believable explanation, and then, thankfully, he offered her one: "Are you sad to be going home? Is it because you'll miss the swimming?" She nodded. Yes, that would make sense to him. And she _had_ enjoyed the time in Scotland, at least until yesterday—especially the freedom she'd found in the loch, freedom she thought she'd never feel again outside of her dreams. "I'll start looking into having a pool built as soon as we're back at Downton," he promised.

"Thank you. I did love Scotland—it's so beautiful," she added, wanting to lend credence to her sadness at their departure.

"Yes, Shrimpy's quite fortunate in his location," he said.

"And I'll miss your cousin Susan," Cora went on. "She's lovely."

He was silent for a moment, and she wondered if he could possibly know about yesterday's conversation…but surely he didn't. "Yes," he agreed eventually. "She was very friendly to you, wasn't she?"

"Yes, she was." Cora had seen so little friendliness in the last year that she had almost forgotten what it felt like and thus had jumped at Susan's kindness.

Robert looked as though he were about to say something more but didn't.


	17. Chapter 17

In the weeks after their return from Scotland, an alarming change took place in Cora that Robert could not fathom. She was sad, and quiet, and withdrawn, with nothing more than a ghost of a smile flitting across her lips. She told him time and time again he ought not to carry her himself, her face took on an embarrassed flush and she refused to meet his eyes when he stretched her legs, and she would let him do nothing to soothe her body or her heart. "There's no need, I'm not hurting," she would say stiffly when he began to rub her back on nights when he had clearly seen the pain on her face; "Nothing's the matter," she would say, sometimes softly, sometimes crisply, when he would reach out to touch her arm with a concerned _"Cora"_ on days when her eyes seemed their most haunted. Nor did she much like to be held—when he carried her, she nearly seemed to be pulling away and would not lay her head on his shoulder, and when he cuddled close to her in bed, her body would go rigid, and he would slink away, not wanting to force her when she had no ability to roll out of his arms on her own.

When he went to see Jones about it, the doctor blamed it on depression brought on by her injury and said there was little to be done but wait for her to seek her husband's help. Yet Robert was not so sure. Cora still happily received Viscountess Branksome when she called, and she was as enthusiastic as ever about her falcons. He could not help but think it was personal, for it was not life she had withdrawn from, but her husband, and he could not shake the sense that he had done something to offend her greatly. Yet she did not seem to be angry, only sad. And she continually assured him that he had done nothing wrong.

He wondered, briefly, if she were upset that he had not yet agreed to adopt a foundling, but when he broached the subject, she merely shook her head. "I don't think that's a very good idea, Robert," she said, as though he'd been the one to suggest it. Nor did it seem to be regret that their holiday in Scotland—and her daily swims in the loch—had come to an end, for she was hesitant when he mentioned construction of the pool at Downton.

"Are you sure that's necessary?" she'd asked. "I may not be here very much longer."

"Cora, you've been in excellent health. You're doing very well; there's no reason to think—"

"That's not what I meant. I meant I may not be _here_ much longer. Here at Downton."

"Don't be ridiculous!" he snapped, recognizing the reference to whatever it was that had gone wrong between them. "You're not going anywhere, and I won't have you say otherwise." His tone alarmed him as he reflected on it in the silence that followed—he had never meant to snap at her—yet he was soon more troubled that she responded to his anger with nothing more than a shrug.

* * *

"Will you be coming down for tomorrow night's dinner?" Robert asked Cora. He was unsure as to its purpose, but he knew his mother had had a party scheduled for weeks. He hadn't seen a full guest list, but the names he'd heard thrown around—mostly men his father's age or older—promised a rather dull evening.

Cora narrowed her eyes. She was propped up in bed, her nurses having placed her there before he had arrived in the room—as she had come to prefer recently. "Why wouldn't I be, Robert?"

 _Because you've been so odd lately? Because you seem to hate me? Because I never know how you'll take to things anymore?_ "I just wasn't sure if you'd want to attend," he said.

"Because you'd prefer I didn't?"

Had she not heard him stand up to his mother over this very issue time and time again? "Of course I wouldn't prefer that," he said, irritated. "Of course I want you to go if you'd like. Don't you know me at all?"

She shook her head and refused to look at him, and after a moment of silence he extinguished the lights and climbed into bed.

"I'll go," Cora said suddenly in the darkness. "I'll go."

When he arrived in her room the next evening, he was almost optimistic—perhaps a social occasion would do her good, no matter how dull the guests; perhaps the evening would draw her back out of her shell.

Cora was seated in her wheelchair in front of her dressing table, pulling on her evening gloves as Clemens gathered up her afternoon clothes. His wife paid him no attention, and he softly asked, "Are you ready?"

She seemed to find it a difficult question, frowning slightly as she adjusted the fingers of her left glove. "If you are," she said at last. He moved for the handlebar on the back of her chair—she had grown so resistant to being carried that he now did it almost exclusively on the stairs or outdoors—but she shook her head. "Robert, do you mind…just this once…could you…would you carry me like you used to? All the way to the stairs?"

"Of course I don't mind," he said, bending to lift her. "Cora, I don't _ever_ mind." Had she somehow gotten the impression that he _did_?

She didn't answer, but she wrapped her arms around his neck and nestled close to him in a way she hadn't done since before they'd gone to Scotland. He tried to focus on her lovely warmth against his chest instead of hoping desperately that this was a sign that she was turning a corner, that they would be happy together again. He tried to savor holding her and tell himself that it meant nothing. He tried not to ache to raise her up so he could kiss her, tried not to yearn to run his fingers through the curls tickling his chin, tried not to think of all the many times she had let him hold her in the past.

"Robert," she said, suddenly breaking the silence as they neared the bottom of the staircase, "I want you to know that I do—understand."

"What?"

"I understand," she repeated.

"Understand what? Cora, what do you understand?" Whatever it was, he suspected she did not understand at all and that she had rather _mis_ understoodsomething of great consequence.

But before she could answer, they were interrupted by the appearance of Charles in the hall before them. "Ah, there you are, my lord! Her ladyship suggested that I might take Lady Downton into the drawing room, if you have no objection." In other words, some of the guests had already arrived, and his mother did not want to risk that Robert would carry Cora into the room in his arms. He was about to protest and send the footman on his way when Cora spoke.

"That would be very helpful, Charles," she said. "Thank you." Reluctantly, Robert lowered her into the chair waiting at the bottom of the staircase, and Charles took hold of the handlebar to push Cora towards the drawing room.

There were several people assembled inside, and much to Robert's surprise, his mother abandoned her conversation to join him immediately. "Robert! I was hoping you would go and greet Lady Louise Danvers; we haven't seen her family in ages. I'd like to introduce Cora to one of her dinner companions…" He was not sure what to make of his mother's gesturing for Charles to have Cora follow her—his mother, who had fought him time and time again on the idea of Cora attending social occasions—yet his wife smiled at the suggestion, and he was not about to question it. He took himself across the room to speak with Lady Louise, the unmarried daughter of the Earl of Wharton. She was a girl about a year younger than himself whom, as his mother had observed, he had not seen in quite some time.

Yet as the minutes wore on, more and more guests arrived, and Robert began to notice a strangeness in the attendees. All of the women standing in Downton's drawing room were similar to Lady Louise: young, beautiful, and unmarried. All of the men, on the other hand, resembled Sir Philip Howard, with whom Cora and his mother were speaking: elderly, mostly widowed, and likely uninterested in another marriage. None of the married couples his or his parents' age who were frequent dinner guests had been included: there were no Greys, there were no Napiers, there were none of his mother and father's friends. This was, by all appearances, a matchmaking party, and it would have seemed a rather poor one for the ladies concerned had Robert not had a sneaking suspicion that the prize they were meant to catch was not an elderly grandfather but he himself. And thus his mother had been eager to get him away from Cora—eager enough to take Cora on herself.

 _Cora._ Cora knew something about this party—hence her "I understand" as he'd brought her down. He hadn't bothered to peruse the guest list, but had she, and had she put it together from there? Of course not, he reasoned—Cora didn't know half these people; their names would have told her nothing about their ages or marital statuses. If she knew something—and he was more and more convinced that she did—she knew it because she'd been told.

And he knew exactly who had done the telling, and who had invented this sickening plan.

"Please excuse me," he said to Louise, giving her a polite nod before making his way back toward his mother.

"Mama, may I see you in the library for a moment?" He tried to keep his voice even, but he was sure she detected the glint in his eye, and she hesitated. "Just for a moment—there's something I thought you should see before dinner begins. If you'll excuse us, Sir Philip, Cora…" The old man nodded pleasantly, leaving his mother no choice but to take Robert's arm and step into the library with him.

"What is this?" Robert said sharply after he shut the door behind them. "What do you think you're doing with this dinner party?"

She didn't deny any scheming, much to his surprise. "I'd have thought that was obvious," she said calmly. "We've got a half-dozen eligible young Englishwomen here for you to visit with in hopes that you'll start thinking about a second marriage."

"And what is it that I've said to give you the impression that I'd ever consider another marriage? I rather thought I'd explained upwards of fifty times how I have _no intention_ of replacing my wife."

Violet reached out to pat his arm, but he jerked away. "I know, dear," she said in a conciliatory tone. "I know. But you must realize this isn't a sustainable situation, and with Cora so…out of sorts recently, I thought perhaps—"

"Yes, exactly. Cora _has_ been out of sorts—and I've been out of my mind with worry over her—and now I believe I know _why_. I'm far more upset about whatever you've done to her than I am about some ridiculous dinner party."

"Heavens, Robert; no one's _done_ anything to Cora."

"Does she know about your plan for tonight?"

His mother sighed. "'Plan' is a rather strong word. There is no plan. This is merely an opportunity for you to—"

"Does Cora know?" he repeated.

She sighed again, as though this were all a great inconvenience. "Not exactly, I don't think. But I do believe she's prepared for you to take a mistress, and really, you should feel no guilt about it. I doubt she blames you—it's not as though she's confronted you, has she?"

 _"What have you told her?"_

"I've told her nothing, Robert," Violet snapped, her eyes flashing. "I don't know exactly what she's been told. I think Susan may have mentioned something when we were all in Scotland—"

Of course. His nasty cousin. He could see her sour expression, the wrinkled nose as though she were forever smelling something rotten, and he could readily imagine her savoring a chance to lash out at Cora. He'd wondered at her friendliness, thinking it exceedingly odd. And now he knew her motive.

But she had not acted alone. Susan would have had no knowledge of future Downton dinner parties; she would have had no reason to think she should suggest Robert had designs on another woman. Not with no prompting.

"You put her up to it, didn't you? You and her horrid mother—"

"There is nothing _horrid_ about your aunt, Robert. Do calm down—Cora had to have known this was coming eventually; she can't be daft enough to think the heir to an earldom could stay with–with a _wreck_ of a woman—"

" _Cora_ is not a wreck. Cora is my _wife_ —"

"Oh, do be _reasonable_ ," Violet snapped. "This is all for the good of Downton—"

"How _dare_ you tell me there's anything good in what you've done? You've spent the last month watching Cora go about with the broken heart you've caused." His own heart clenched at the thought of how painful it must have been for her to think she was soon to be set aside—as thought there was not enough grief in her life. "Do you understand how much pain she's already in from her injury? Do you know that her back hurts her all the time? _All the time?_ Do you know she still cries over her legs? Can you imagine how it would feel to lose the ability to walk? How _dare_ you try to _add_ to her pain!"

Of course, his speech did not move his mother. He had known that even as he'd ranted. Emotional appeals did not move Violet Crawley. "Robert, you are far too wrapped up in looking after Cora." He sensed she was struggling not to roll her eyes, and it only made him angrier. "You must consider the estate and your line. _Please_ take a look at the ladies here tonight; it wouldn't be so difficult to send Cora away, and—"

"Dammit, Mama!" he yelled, losing his last shred of control. "I am in love with _Cora_!" His own statement shocked him, but only for a moment: he knew, now that he'd given voice to it, that it was true. He loved Cora. Loved her with every fiber of his being.

Violet gasped, and he realized it was not so much at his words but at the volume at which he'd shouted them. They were but one room away from their guests; surely he had been heard. Surely the whole _county_ could have heard him.

Robert didn't care. He turned on his heel, strode back across the library, and flung the door open. Every eye in the drawing room was staring at him, confirming that his proclamation had, indeed, been heard.

Yet the only eyes he had any interest in were Cora's. They were wide and bright and shining with tears, and her face had split into a smile broader than any he had seen since her accident.

He was taking her upstairs right now. His mother could deal with their dinner guests—tell them whatever she liked. All he wanted was to spend the rest of the night with Cora in his arms.

No—he wanted more than that. He could hear her mournful words of last spring, words that had tormented him for months: _All I feel is pain._

Not if he had anything to do with it. She would feel something besides pain tonight, something that might dissolve the heartache of the last month.

Without a word, he strode over to Cora's chair, scooped her up, and swept her out of the room and up the stairs.

* * *

AN: As you might suspect, the next chapter is going to go to M. ;-) So just a reminder to set your filters accordingly if you're looking for the story!


	18. Chapter 18

AN: Second-to-last chapter, folks! But it's the M one that we've all been waiting for. ;-) And I do have a tentative sequel planned, but I probably won't release it (if I do write it) until after the sixth season airs in America. (I don't like watching in the fall, and I hate being spoiled, so I'll be disappearing from this site after the premiere airs in the U.K. next month. I'll be back at the end of the winter, though!)

* * *

Had he really said he was in love with her? No, not said… _shouted_ , shouted to a roomful of guests and servants. Cora trembled slightly, shaking as she let the emotions wash over her. She was not crying, but she could not quite catch her breath, and Robert must have taken it all as tears, for he pressed her to him tightly as they started up the stairs. "Shh," he murmured, "it's all right."

Of course it was all right. Everything was all right. It couldn't be more all right. He loved her. _He loved her._

"I know," she said, pressing a kiss to his neck. "And I love you, too."

"I do love you, Cora," he said fiercely.

She wondered where he was taking her—she wondered what exactly the mix-up with the dinner party had been, and why Susan had been so mistaken—she wondered why Robert had suddenly shouted from the library—but she couldn't bring herself to care enough to ask. _He loved her._

Once he reached the second floor, he hurried down the corridor to her room, where he seated her on the bed and settled her against the pillows.

"Darling," he said, sitting down at her knees and gathering her hands in his, "what did Susan say to you about this party?"

"She said you were looking for a mistress," she said softly, lowering her eyes and almost ashamed to admit her credulity.

He sighed. "Cora, I assure you I am not—"

"I know. I know that now." She studied their hands, her thin fingers disappearing against his large palms. "I just thought—as your cousin, she would know. And she said…I was getting to be too much work for you…and that did make sense."

"Oh God, Cora," he said, his face stricken. "You're not that. You could never be that." He took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead. "I love you far too much for that." He gave her a gentle kiss on her lips, and she reached out for him so that he took her into his arms. "Oh darling," he said, "I am so sorry for all of this."

"Why would Susan say those things?" she asked softly, laying her head on his shoulder. "How could she have so misunderstood—"

"She did not misunderstand," he said, a sudden harshness in his voice. "She knew it was a lie when she said it. Susan is a vicious, hateful cow."

"Robert!" she exclaimed, shocked at his description of his cousin.

"She's often…deliberately unkind. Spiteful, I would say. She's always been like that. I didn't say anything because she'd been so friendly to you, and I thought…I don't know what I thought." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "I'm sorry you were hurt."

"I should have just asked you about it."

"Well, you certainly had a right to be angry with me if you believed her." Another kiss.

"I didn't push you away because I was angry," she said quietly. "I wasn't angry. It was only…having you be affectionate when I knew you were going to leave me was just so… _painful_." Her voice cracked on the last words, and she took a deep breath to hold back her tears.

"Oh, my love," he murmured, his own voice tight.

They were silent for a time, and she basked in the feeling of being held again as his hands made slow passes up and down her back. "I do love you," he said, suddenly breaking the silence. "I love you very much, my darling."

Words she'd long thought she'd never hear. "I don't…deserve this," she said, feeling her throat begin to clog with more tears.

 _"What?"_

She swallowed. "I don't…you shouldn't love me. You've got no reason to love me. Not when I'm so broken. Not when—"

" _You_ are not _broken_ ," he said firmly. "Your _back_ is broken. _You_ are whole and perfect and wonderful and kind and beautiful. Of course you deserve to be loved. You deserve far more than I could ever give you."

Cora turned her face towards him, sitting up so she could wrap her arms around his neck. He kissed the tears that had begun to leak from her eyes before she gently brushed her lips to his, savoring every second of the kiss as it deepened. She parted her lips to allow him entry, and she drank of him as though dying of thirst. And she nearly had died, she thought. She'd nearly died of thirst for him in the last month.

Her conversation with Rosamund near the end of their time in Scotland rose unbidden to her mind: "You don't know there are… _things_ you can do for Robert, do you? You're far too virginal and innocent, aren't you?" Her sister-in-law's unsolicited instructions had made her blush crimson at the time, and then it had been just the next day that Susan had spoken up after tea. After that the thought of doing anything sexual made her cringe—how very desperate would it seem? But now that she knew he loved her, now that she knew he would not take it as a pathetic attempt to hold onto him…she began to wonder…

"Cora," Robert said suddenly, breaking into her thoughts as he gently pulled back from the kiss. "Do you trust me?"

Trust him? "Why, of couirse—"

"May I undress you?"

Did he just want to see her? "I—of course…"

"Will it hurt you to sit on your own for a moment?"

"No," she said, and he let go of her and stood to remove her jewels and then her gloves, setting them on her nightstand, before carefully taking the pins from her hair. Robert ran his fingers through her curls once he had let them down, pausing to slowly kiss her neck. Then he removed her heels and rolled her stockings down, lightly caressing the legs she couldn't feel, and then they worked together to get her dress off, and he unlaced her corset.

It was all so slow and methodical, and he paused occasionally to nip softly at newly exposed skin with his lips, as he had done long ago, _before_. She shivered slightly each time, trying not to think of how she knew this would _not_ end.

At last she was naked before him, and he eased her back against the pillows.

"Robert…" Where on earth did he mean to go with this?

"Shh," he murmured. "Just lie back." He began to kiss and caress her breasts, and she gasped at the sensation.

"Does this feel good?" he asked, pausing to raise his eyes to hers.

She nodded, not sure she could speak. It did feel good. It felt surprisingly good. As good as it always had.

He lowered his head and began again with new enthusiasm, and suddenly she knew what he meant to do. He intended to give her as much pleasure as he could, as much pleasure as she could feel in her injured state. The thought made her want to weep with love, and she began to stroke his hair slowly as he worked.

"Robert," she said, remembering the sensation of his kisses on her back last spring, "could you…when you're… _finished_ there…would you turn me over and…kiss my back? Right where I was hurt?"

He looked up, his brow furrowed at her strange request, and she felt herself blush. "A few months ago…you kissed me there, and…it felt _good_. I know it–it sounds odd, but…"

He chuckled. "It is odd, I guess, but that doesn't matter." He raised her up in his arms, but before he flipped her over, he touched a feather-light kiss just behind her right ear, a favorite spot she had nearly forgotten that he had discovered on their honeymoon.

"Oh _Robert_ ," she breathed, shivering. Her skin tingled everywhere she still had sensation.

"You used to like that, too, didn't you?" he whispered. Her answer was the heavy breaths she found herself struggling to draw as his lips continued to work over the spot.

 _"Robert,"_ she whispered again, arching her shoulders back as she felt his tongue trace small circles on her skin.

"Shall I do your back now, sweetheart?" he asked. She nodded eagerly, and he gently turned her over then traced his finger down her spine, searching for the correct vertebra. "Here?" She nodded again.

Cora felt his lips touch it lightly at first, the kisses growing in their fervor as the explosions in her body grew in intensity. She let herself cry out this time, and moan that it felt simply _divine_ , and tremble with the sensation. How she _wanted_ him, wanted him in the _real_ way…

After what seemed far too short a time, she felt him draw away, and she could not hold back a soft murmur of regret.

"I'm not finished, love," he said gently. _Love._ She felt another lump rise in her throat. "Let me turn you back over."

He rolled her onto her back once again, and then she watched him spread her paralyzed legs. Didn't he realize she wouldn't…respond to him? She didn't want to disappoint him, certainly not now…

"What are you doing?" she asked.

He looked up. "Is this all right?"

"Yes, but—"

"Do you trust me?"

She nodded. That had never been in question. She propped herself up on her elbow in order to see what he was doing, and she saw that he was stroking her with his hand.

"Can you feel this?" he asked softly.

She shook her head. "No." Of course not. Why was he doing this? Why end on such a sad note? But then…

She felt…something…inside of her. His fingers, she realized. She could…she could _feel_ them inside of her. _She could feel._ *

She began to sob with happiness, and he withdrew his hand. "Have I hurt you?" he asked, alarmed.

"No, no!" She shook her head frantically. "It's…I could _feel_ you…oh, please do it again!"

She lay back down as his fingers slipped back inside. She did not have as much sensation as before her injury, and it was not quite the same, but she could not stop the sobs of gratitude and happiness that she could feel _something_ , that she was not a dead creature sexually, that her body still _worked_ to a degree. And it was _nearly_ as good—perhaps better for being so wonderfully welcome. Her heart raced as she shouted his name, not caring who heard her.

"Dear _God_ ," she breathed when he had finished. "That was…oh, _Robert_."

"I am so glad," he said, his own voice nearly breaking with happiness, "that I can still give you pleasure." He leaned down to kiss her and then shifted awkwardly away.

 _Of course._ She had not been able to think coherently while he had worked over her body, but now she realized that _of course_ touching her like that would affect him, too.

And she knew exactly what to do about it.

"Please excuse me," he said, getting to his feet.

"No, come here."

"Cora, I—"

"I know," she said softly. "And please, come and lie next to me."

"But—"

"Do you trust me?"

He chuckled. "Yes, of course, darling." He climbed back into bed with her, and she moved to undo his pants. She had been toying with first helping him remove everything as he had done with her, but the severity and urgency of his need was immediately apparent as she brushed her hand against it. So she quickly unfastened only what was strictly necessary and then grasped him in her hand as Rosamund had instructed.

"Good God, Cora!" he shouted, half in pleasure and half in surprise. She merely smiled and continued to stroke him, delighting in his groans. Eventually, she leaned over to begin pressing kisses to it, and she heard him gasp. She had doubted, when her sister-in-law had first given her the information, that she would ever have the courage to use her mouth this way, but it suddenly seemed as natural as anything. _"Cora!"_ he shouted. _"Yes!"_ She felt him grasp her head firmly with his hand, burying his fingers tightly in her curls.

At last she finished, straightening to meet his eyes, which were fluttering shut as he slowly caught his breath. "Darling," he murmured, "that was _amazing. Wonderful. You_ are wonderful."

She laughed softly. All she wanted to do, she thought, was laugh, so glad was she at what they'd both discovered this evening. It had not been quite the same as _real_ intimacy, but it had been so very near it, Robert mimicking the sensation for her with his hand and she for him with her mouth. And it had been far beyond anything she'd dreamed they'd ever experience together again.

"Wherever did you learn to do all _that_?" he asked.

"Your sister taught me," she said matter-of-factly.

Robert's eyes flew open, and he shot back up into a sitting position. _"What?"_

"Well, not with a demonstration. She just explained…the theory."

"I should think not with a demonstration!" he exclaimed. He blinked, as though still trying to clear his head. "My God. Next time you discuss _anything_ sexual with my _sister_ , of all people, I don't ever want to hear about it. Heavens, Cora."

"But you are glad I know, yes?"

He grinned. "I can't deny that."

"Why don't you undress?" she asked. "Then we can lie down together."

"I think that sounds lovely," he said. He took her chin in his hand and kissed her gently. "I'll do just that.

Robert stood and quickly removed his clothes so that he was as naked as she was before he climbed back into bed. She held her arms out in a signal for him to pull her close, and he laid her down half on top of him, so that she was lying with her head on his chest.

They were still for a while, as Robert stroked his hand through her curls and Cora traced her fingers over his chest. She had closed her eyes, almost overwhelmed at how _raw_ this all felt: lying with their bare skin pressed together seemed far more intimate than anything they'd just done.

"I have missed you," she whispered. How hard it had been to push him away, and how painful to watch him learn to avoid her.

He lifted her hand from his chest to kiss her palm. "And I you. Oh darling, you can't imagine how much I missed you, or how worried I was."

She leaned up to press a kiss to his neck.

"How have you been feeling, sweetheart?" he asked. His hand left her hair, and she felt his fingers exploring her back, pressing lightly against her muscles. "You're tense."

"Yes," she said softly, sighing as she felt his hand begin a gentle massage up and down her spine. She had not let him do this since Scotland, merely gritting her teeth in the intervening weeks as she'd felt the pain building, and she closed her eyes as it slowly eased.

"Helping?"

"Yes, thank you," she murmured. She thought about kissing him again but decided she was far too comfortable to move.

"And what I did earlier—that was good?"

She could hear a smile in his voice—he knew it had been good. "Oh, _wonderful_ ," she breathed. " _Glorious._ Can you do all that again later tonight?" _That_ she would move for!

"Absolutely, darling. As many times as you like. I enjoy touching you, and I enjoy hearing you and knowing I've pleased you."

"If we can do all that…" She paused, suddenly nervous to give voice to the question that had been playing in the back of her mind.

"Yes," he said hesitantly, "we could have relations the normal way, too."

"Why didn't we, then? And why haven't you told me? How long have you known?" The questions poured out of her, and Cora pushed herself up to look her husband in the eye, equal parts betrayed and confused at his silence. "Robert?" she prompted when he didn't answer.

"Because if we did that…you might fall pregnant," he said slowly. "And I thought if you knew that, you would beg for it, and I knew I couldn't resist the most beautiful woman in England begging me to sleep with her."

"I can have children?" she whispered. Every other question fell away as she imagined herself with a growing belly, and then holding a child of her and Robert's own…

" _No,"_ he corrected firmly, his eyes dark with sorrow, "you cannot have children. You can _conceive_ children."

"It's too dangerous, you mean." She didn't care about risks. "I'm not afraid—"

" _No,"_ he said again, laying a finger to her lips. "It is not a matter of risk and danger; it is a matter of life and death. Pregnancy and childbirth would kill you, Cora." He moved his hand to cup her cheek. "And I can't bear that. I can't _bear_ to lose you."

She covered his hand with her own and then nodded slowly, feeling herself deflate at his words. Why was she so heartbroken at this? She'd known for months she would never bear children; there was no news here. Yet a moment's hope had suddenly made her feel as though she'd aged decades.

She laid her head back down on his chest. "I wish you hadn't told me," she whispered, and she felt his hand pass through her hair again. How cruel to think that her body could create a baby, and nourish a baby, and then deny her the chance to bring it into the world. "Did Dr. Wagner tell you all this?"

"Yes, when he operated on you. He told me you could still be intimate, but that we _shouldn't_ , at least not until you're past your childbearing years, because you _must not_ have a baby."

Yet surely Robert had wanted her—she knew her body had always pleased him greatly, even on their honeymoon, when they had barely known each other. How hard it must have been not to ignore the danger to her to satisfy his own urges, not to decide the chance for an heir would be worth her life…and how much love it must have required. And she had not thought he had loved her very long…

"Was I so precious to you…even then?" she asked.

"Cora, you have always been precious to me." She felt his hand pass through her hair, over her shoulder, and down her arm in a soft caress, and she closed her eyes again. "You are my wife. And I love you."

* * *

*I've noted this before, but I know not everybody remembers everything, and I know not everybody reads every word or every chapter of a fanfic, so I'll repeat myself here. Cora would have some sexual sensation for two reasons. One, she has an incomplete injury, which would mean she can't walk or feel her legs, but she does have some internal sensation, enough to control her bladder, and that could also lead to sexual sensation. (This is quite possible medically, but more importantly I had to write it this way or she would have died of a bladder infection in a world without antibiotics!) Two, it's not uncommon to have some sexual sensation even if you do have a completely severed spinal cord. Some sexual nerves actually bypass your spine and reach your brain through your lungs. It wouldn't be unusual for a woman with Cora's injury to experience sex the way she does here.


	19. Chapter 19

AN: So I know I said this would be the last chapter, but writing this gave me major Cobert baby feels, and I couldn't help but start writing a little bit about Charlotte's childhood. (Plus, I was curious about what it might be like for Cora to raise a child from her wheelchair, and I thought readers might be curious too.) I was thinking of putting those scenes into a sequel, but I want the sequel to focus on the season 1 era, and I thought the time jump would be weird. So now we've got this chapter, and then two more. :-)

* * *

"I thought you were with—" Robert began as he entered their bedroom to find Cora already propped up in bed. He'd been told she'd gone to the nursery.

 _"Shh!"_ she hissed at the same moment that he caught sight of the bundle in her arms. "She's sleeping!"

"Oh," he whispered. Fortunately, the baby had not stirred. "Sorry. I didn't know you were going to bring her in here."

Cora smiled. "I wasn't. But Charles took me up to the nursery, and she was just finishing her evening feeding. The nurse gave her to me right afterwards, and then she gave this little sigh and she fell asleep in my arms, and I just couldn't bring myself to kiss her good night and pass her back." She stroked her finger lightly up and down the child's cheek. "So I thought I'd take her with me and curl up with her in here for a while, and have you take her back when we're ready to turn out the light. You don't mind, do you?"

"No, of course not."

"I like holding her when she's sleeping," Cora said, so softly that he almost didn't hear her, as she seemed to draw the baby closer still.

Robert and Cora had traveled to London's Foundling Hospital just three days earlier, where they had been presented with a newborn girl. Cora had begun to weep immediately on having the baby placed in her arms.

"I'm not upset," she'd told him, giving him a watery smile. "It's just…I love her so much already that it's almost more than I can bear."

It had warmed his heart to see Cora so happy as she cuddled the child— _their_ child, he tried to tell himself—but he did not quite share her sentiment. He _liked_ the little girl, yes, and he thought her very sweet and did not mind in the slightest that they would be taking her home with them, but to say he _loved_ her might have been going a bit far. Nor could he quite see her as his daughter, and he was not sure that would ever change.

Cora had wanted to call her Charlotte Caroline,* and he had agreed, and a date for the christening had been set for two weeks in the future. Papers had been drawn up giving her their last name as well, as she'd not been left with one at the home.

"Can you _imagine_ leaving her on the step and walking away?" Cora had said incredulously as they'd settled into the carriage, the baby still in her arms.

"Of course not," he'd said. "How horrible."

But then he realized her tone had not been one of judgment, but of pity. "Her poor mother," she said wistfully as she stroked her hand over the light fuzz on Charlotte's head.

"You're her mother now, darling," he said gently.

"Yes, of course." Cora smiled again as Charlotte curled her little hand around her finger. "And I'm so happy it doesn't seem quite real, but it does break my heart to think of the poor woman who gave birth to her and knew she couldn't keep her. I'm not sure how anyone could survive that."

Their adoptee would not be _Lady_ Charlotte Crawley, of course. Not being quite legally theirs, at least not in a way that was meaningful to the peerage, she would merely be _Miss_ Crawley. Robert was ashamed to admit that he was both relieved that a child not of his blood would not receive a title and troubled that he would raise a child that was not a little lord or lady.

Yet he was not thinking along those lines tonight. He had not expected to find Cora in bed with Charlotte, and the unanticipated image had startled him. It brought to mind exactly how he might have found them had Cora given birth herself. There would have been no question of his witnessing the delivery—he cringed at the very idea—and, after a nervous night spent drinking port in the library, he would have rushed up here to find his wife propped up in bed, her cheeks flushed with excitement and her eyes enraptured with the newborn baby resting in her arms.

Exactly the scene he had stumbled upon here. He was suddenly not sure why exactly the baby's origins should matter so very much to him. That was relevant if it were the heir, but it was a girl, and so it wasn't. Whether or not he and Cora had made the child and she had delivered it would, he realized, make absolutely no difference to his experience as its father.

He climbed carefully into bed next to his wife, newly interested in little Charlotte. "She's quite perfect, isn't she?" he whispered, leaning over Cora's shoulder to examine the infant.

Cora chuckled softly. "As I've been saying since we got her."

"But look! Look at her little fingers!" he exclaimed. Charlotte had been nothing more than _the baby_ to him for the last few days, but now that the concept of her as _his daughter_ was crashing over him, he could not contain his awe.

Cora slipped her finger under Charlotte's hand, raising all four of the child's fingers at once. "Yes, and they are perfect, aren't they?"

Gently, Robert ran his own finger over Charlotte's, examining the feel of the tiny knuckles and nails.

"And if I weren't afraid to wake her, I could unwrap her feet and prove to you that she's also got ten very perfect toes," Cora said with a grin. But then she studied his face, her smile faltered, and she bit her lip.

"What's wrong, darling?"

"Nothing's wrong," she said softly. "It's only that I knew you'd start to love her, and now you do."

"How could I not love her?" He kissed Cora's temple and then bent and kissed Charlotte's forehead. "She's ours."

"Would you like to hold her?"

He did want to, but something in Cora's expression told him that she was not anxious for him to say yes just yet, and he remembered that she had brought Charlotte in here because she could not let her go.

"Yes, but I can wait a bit. I don't think you're quite ready to give her up."

Cora laughed again. "I'm not. I think I could sit here and hold her until she's grown."

"You hold her, and I'll hold the both of you," he said. Robert shifted so that he was slightly behind his wife and then pulled her back into his arms so that she was leaning against him. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the sweet mixture of her scent with Charlotte's.

"Robert?" she said after a moment.

"Hmm?"

"You were right, what you said a few weeks ago."

"What did I say?"

"You told me I wasn't broken. And for the first time…I don't feel broken. None of this feels broken to me."

"Of course not, darling. Nothing could be any more whole than this."

He moved to kiss her temple, but she turned her face to kiss him soundly on the lips.

* * *

*Nope, not Mary. I purposely picked a non-canon name for the baby because I wanted to be clear that this isn't the same thing as getting Mary or Edith or Sybil from another source. The child they adopt would of course be different from the child they would have had, and Charlotte is her own little person with her own distinct character. (Who they will of course love just as much as they would have loved their biological daughters.)


	20. Chapter 20

AN: Thanks to latifraise, who's a mom and who was very helpful as I figured out what Charlotte would know and think when! I don't have kids myself yet (or even any nieces or nephews), though, so I apologize ahead of time if Charlotte speaks too well (or not well enough) for her age. Any child development errors here are totally my own.

* * *

Cora was absolutely mad about Charlotte. Within a week she was wondering how she had ever gotten by without a baby to hold, and she was soon spending her days in the nursery, or—much to Violet's thin-lipped disapproval—carrying her daughter about the house as though it were perfectly normal to bring an infant into the drawing room. She delighted in rocking her in her arms and singing to her, or reading her stories, and she had even managed to give her baths when the little wooden tub was set on a low table before her wheelchair.

It was, of course, far more than the Viscountess Downton would have ever been expected to do had she been able-bodied, but her vastly fewer social obligations left her with hours to fill while Robert was out on the estate or helping his father in the study, and it was not lost on Cora that her injury had let her be a much more involved mother than she could have been otherwise.

As Charlotte became more mobile, Cora would ask to be lowered to the floor so she could sit or lay at the baby's level, playing with her or watching her crawl. She wondered, in her darker moments, how she might take to seeing her daughter eventually learn to walk while she was left behind in her chair, yet she reacted with nothing but tears of joy when eleven-month-old Charlotte first pulled herself up on the leg of her crib to take three hesitant steps before plopping down again with a giggle.

But it was at this point that it began to _matter_ that Cora was paralyzed. When she'd crawled, Charlotte had never been much inclined to get too far from her stationary mother, and somehow crawling had seemed so much safer and slower. But the realization that she would soon be able to toddle around a room, out of Cora's reach and able to trip on anything, was immensely frightening.

"Don't babies always fall when they're learning to walk?" Robert asked when she mentioned her fears. "Isn't that just part of it?"

"But what if she hurts herself?"

"She won't hurt herself, Cora. She's very near to the ground, you know. And if she did, she would have hurt herself just the same if you weren't paralyzed."

"But what if she walks somewhere that's dangerous? Somewhere where a normal mother would stop her?" She wasn't even sure what she meant by this. They weren't exactly in the habit of leaving piles of kitchen knives on the carpet.

"We'll keep things that might hurt her off the floor. We won't set her down alone with you in rooms where there's hard furniture that she might hit her head on."

Cora chewed her lower lip, not sure it was good enough but not able to find another objection.

"This isn't really about her falling, is it?" he asked, and she looked away, unwilling to answer. It wasn't, not really. Not at its heart. What she was afraid of was that she was somehow lacking as a mother for Charlotte…and that her daughter would soon realize this, now that she was learning to move on her own.

Charlotte, of course, took a toddler's usual tumbles, bouncing back up again or merely staying seated where she'd landed, a confused expression on her face. Her walking quickly became more a source of amusement than fear to her mother, and Cora became fond of sitting nearby on the floor and holding her arms out for the child. Charlotte would happily cry out, "Mama!" as she made shaky steps toward her, laughing when she would reach her mother at last and be picked up for snuggles and kisses.

But it was inevitable that she would take a fall that would make her cry. Cora was sitting on the floor of her own bedroom one afternoon, her back resting against the bed and her legs stretched out in front of her, watching as Charlotte tottered towards her. But then—while she was still some distance away—she stumbled forward, landing flat on her face, and immediately began to scream.

"Oh, darling!" Cora reached out for her reflexively, but of course it was too far for her to have any hope of touching her. "Can you come to Mama?" She thought Charlotte was more frightened than hurt and hoped that perhaps she would crawl over to be comforted, but the baby was full out wailing and had no intention of moving herself anywhere.

"It's okay, sweetheart," Cora soothed, hating herself for sitting still while her child sobbed. "You're all right." Yet hearing Charlotte cry from a few feet away without taking her in her arms set off a panic that made her feel as though she were suffocating. She cast about frantically for a way to move herself—she ought not to have let the nurses leave her so far from the bell pull—when she realized that she did, of course, have the use of her arms.

Cora pushed her fists against the floor next to her hips, scooting her body across the carpet towards her daughter. It was slow, and it was tiring, but it was working, and at last she reached Charlotte, her shoulders aching from the effort.

"Mama's here, sweetheart," she murmured, gathering the little girl up in her arms. "Mama's come, and Mama's got you now." She felt the pounding in her own heart steady as she began to cover the plump, damp cheeks with kisses. "Mama will _always_ come," she promised. And she would, now that she had figured out how. She'd drag herself on her stomach over a floor covered in shattered glass if she had to.

The source of Charlotte's distress seemed to be a slightly pink place on her arm that she must have scraped on the rug, and Cora kissed it gently. "Shh, let Mama make it better." Cora cursed her legs, wishing with all her heart that she could get up and carry Charlotte into the washroom to run cool water over her little arm.

Yet Charlotte seemed quite satisfied with her mother's kisses, for she calmed enough to rest her head on Cora's chest, and her screams gave way to quiet sobs and then, as Cora rocked her, to silent tears and finally to little hiccups.

"Shh," Cora whispered, giving her another kiss. "You're okay. Mama loves you."

"Mama," Charlotte murmured.

"Yes, that's right. Mama's right here."

She could feel the child growing limp and heavy in her arms, and she realized that it was not so very far from Charlotte's naptime. Her spine was beginning to ache from her position in the middle of the floor, but she did not want to put Charlotte down so she could scoot herself back to the bed, not when her daughter was resting so peacefully after her tears. And she did not mind letting Charlotte sleep in her arms—she knew the days of that were numbered.

But a few minutes later, she heard the door open on the other side of the room and Robert's voice call out, "Cora? Are you and Charlotte in here?" She glanced back over her shoulder to see him step inside. "Oh…what are you doing out there? Who set you down in the middle of the floor?"

Cora shook her head as she felt Charlotte stir against her. "No, I was sitting against the bed, but she fell and she was crying, so…I came out here and got her." Robert looked as stunned as if she'd tossed a glass of water in his face, but before he could speak, she went on. "Could you take her and put her to bed, though? She's getting a bit heavy."

"Of course, of course," he said. "You don't look comfortable." He squatted down next to her so she could transfer the toddler to his arms, and Charlotte sleepily snuggled up to her father instead. "I think somebody is more than ready for her nap."

Robert took Charlotte next door to lay her down in the nursery, returning quickly to Cora. He stooped again to lift her and then set her down on the chaise, where she sighed gratefully as she settled against its back.

"Are you all right, darling?" he asked as he took a seat next to her legs.

"Yes." She smiled. "That's much better."

"Tell me how you got from the side of the bed to where I found you."

She laughed at his serious expression. "I just pushed my hands against the carpet and scooted myself forward. It wasn't very dignified, I don't think, but it worked."

"I wouldn't have thought of that," he said, clearly surprised. "Have you done that before?"

"No, I hadn't ever thought about it either. It's not really very easy. But Charlotte fell, and she started crying, and I had to get to her and hold her. I couldn't think what else to do, but I realized that of course I could use my arms, so…" She shrugged, bemused at the look of wonder on his face.

"Cora, have I told you you're a wonderful mother? You are. You're a very good mother to our daughter."

 _Our daughter._ Not _Charlotte_ , not _the baby_ , but _our daughter_. How she loved every little reminder of how quickly and easily Robert had taken Charlotte into his heart.

"When do you think she'll…notice?" she asked hesitantly.

"Notice that you're a good mother? I think she already knows that, darling. You see how much she loves you."

Cora shook her head. "No, notice that I'm crippled. When do you think she'll figure out that she has a mother who can't walk?"

Robert was silent for a moment. "I'm not sure she doesn't already know that," he said finally. Cora looked up sharply, and he continued. "Think about it from her perspective. She only knows what she observes. She knows she's seen me walk and seen her nurse walk and her grandparents walk. But she's never seen you walk, so I don't think she expects you to. I think she knows you don't walk, and I think she just thinks that's how you are. And that's normal for her—she's never known you any other way."

"How do you know she thinks about it at all?" she asked, wanting to hold onto some veneer of normalcy in front of her daughter.

"Because she acts like she knows," he said, with a certainty that told her he'd considered all this before. "When I watch her with you, she never crawls very far away—not as far as she does with me, because she knows I'll follow after her. She also comes to you when she wants you. When I play with her, she calls me or looks at me if she wants me to come and pick her up. And when she's on your lap she doesn't squirm around the way she sometimes does when I hold her. She's very still—unusually still for a baby. I think she can sense that your legs don't move and won't shift with her, and that she needs to stay still and let you hold on with your arms."

"Do you think she…minds?" Cora asked. The list of things Charlotte didn't do with her—all of it true, when she thought about it—troubled her immensely. Had her baby already branded her as the parent who wouldn't come to her and in whose arms she wasn't safe?

"Minds? No more than she minds that the rest of us can't fly. I don't think it would ever occur to her to think that you can _help_ that you can't walk. And I don't think it's even of much interest to her. She's a baby. She knows you're her mother, and she knows you love her. That's all she cares about."

"She's going to want to know more, though, someday, isn't she?" Cora asked, looking down and examining her hands.

"I suppose she is. I suppose someday she'll ask you about it."

"I don't like to think I'll disappoint her when she understands I really can't walk, and that I never will."

"You won't," Robert said, tugging one of her hands into his. "You could never disappoint her. The more she understands, the more I think she's going to love you."

* * *

As Charlotte grew and fully learned to walk and began to talk, it became clearer and clearer that Robert was right, and that she was aware that her mother was different from the other adults around her. She came to Cora rather than calling for Cora to come to her, she was adorably fond of bringing her mother stuffed animals and dolls as though she might want them but be unable to retrieve them for herself, and her first phrases included "Mama sit" and "Mama chair."

It was also clear that none of it troubled her in the slightest. Her face continued to light up when Cora arrived to get her from the nursery in the mornings, she loved to set a tiny hand on her mother's leg and cry, "Up!" in a request to be lifted onto her lap, and nothing made her laugh so much as to sit on Cora's knees while Robert pushed them around the room. And for a time, she seemed to lack both the vocabulary and the curiosity necessary to ask about her mother's handicap.

On an afternoon just after her third birthday, Charlotte was curled up on Cora's lap in the library, munching noisily on a chocolate biscuit while her mother read her a story in that funny voice, that voice that Charlotte loved but that sounded like no one else in the house. It was, of course, not the only way her mother was different. She had begun to wonder why her mama never stood up, and why Papa carried her places the same way people sometimes did with Charlotte herself, and why she rode around in the fun chair with the wheels.

"Mama, why don't you ever walk?" Charlotte asked when the story was finished.

Cora closed the book and set it on the side table, prepared for this to be a long conversation. She had been over it so many times in her mind that it was almost a relief to finally be asked. She had determined that she would be as honest and straightforward as possible. "Because I can't walk, darling."

"Why not?"

"About a year before you were born, I fell off of a horse and broke my back. If a person breaks her back, sometimes that means that the lower part of her body doesn't work anymore, so I can't make my legs move."

Charlotte seemed to be working something out. After a moment, she said, "Before I was born is a very long time, Mama."

Cora laughed. Certainly Charlotte's own three years of life would seem long to her. "A few years, yes, sweetheart."

"So when are you going to get better?"

Oh. So that was why Charlotte had been concerned with the time. It was a question she had not quite expected, and her chest tightened in nervousness of how her daughter would take the answer.

"I won't get better, sweetheart. People who break their backs don't get better—they can't ever walk again. But I'm okay—I just can't walk."

"That isn't fair."

Cora's heart sank, but she tried to remind herself that there was nothing unnatural in Charlotte's desire for a parent who could run and play, and she did not want her daughter to feel guilty for it or think that she must hide her feelings from her mother. "I'm sorry, darling. Do you wish you had a mama who could run around with you?"

"No!" Charlotte shook her head vehemently. "I like _you_." She tapped Cora on the arm, rather possessively. "I love you the way you are, Mama. But it's not fair you don't get to walk."

Cora pulled Charlotte close to her chest, partly because she wanted to embrace her tightly, and partly because she did not want her to see the tears that were filling her eyes at her sweetness. Charlotte snuggled up to her happily, and Cora kissed her.

"That's okay. I don't much mind not being able to walk," she said when she could trust her voice again, and it wasn't entirely untrue. While she certainly would have been thrilled to regain the use of her legs, it had been quite some time since she had last given walking much thought at all.

"Do you have any other questions? It's always okay to ask Mama questions." She had long known that she wanted to be very clear with Charlotte that she could ask anything, not wanting her to feel forced to worry in silence about what her mother's injury might mean.

Charlotte lifted her head. "Did getting hurt make you talk funny?"

"What?"

"You talk funny. Why do you do that?"

The last question she'd been expecting, Cora thought, laughing. "No, I talk this way because I didn't grow up here. When I was a little girl, I lived very far away in America, on the other side of the ocean. People talk differently there than they do here in England."

"Does everyone talk funny in America?"

Cora laughed again. "Well, it would probably sound that way to you."

"Why did you come here? Was it because I am here?"

"Not exactly—you weren't born yet. I came here to marry Papa, and I'm very glad I did, because now I get to have you. I love you and Papa very much, and you both make me very happy."

Cora and Robert had not told Charlotte anything of her origins, as three seemed far too young to understand where she had come from, and they had agreed to wait until she was old enough to display some curiosity. But her daughter's history weighed heavily on Cora, as she often considered where Charlotte might have been had she not been paralyzed. Cora would certainly have given birth to a child by now—probably to more than one—and would still have been a mother. Yet Charlotte would not have been a daughter. Cora and Robert had been given a short tour of the London Foundling Home when they had come to pick up their adoptee three years earlier, and while the children were clearly fed and educated and had their physical needs met, and Cora was glad for it, she could not help but think how sad and empty their eyes were and notice how little attention the home seemed to be able to give to any of them. Imagining her baby as a thin waif in a faded, ill-fitting uniform who was never hugged or kissed broke her heart. She could not bear to think of lovable Charlotte as unloved, and some days it made her almost glad for her injury. It also made her want to rush to London immediately and adopt every foundling she could pack into the carriage, and she knew that wasn't practical.

Cora watched as Charlotte pulled away slightly to run her hand over one of her mother's legs. Her curiosity about the issue had clearly not faded. "Do your legs hurt, Mama, since they don't work right?"

"No, darling. In fact, I can't feel them at all."

"You can't feel?"

Cora shook her head. "Not with my legs."

Charlotte frowned, considering this. "So you can't feel me?"

Cora laughed. "I can't feel where you're sitting on my lap, and I can't feel it when you touch my legs. But I can feel you with my hands and my arms and everywhere else."

"So you can feel it when we hug?"

"Yes, of course, sweetheart," she said, chuckling again as she embraced her daughter, feeling Charlotte's little arms wrap around her neck. She pressed a kiss to Charlotte's cheek. "I can feel when you hug me."

"Does it hurt you to have a broken back?" Charlotte asked next.

Cora hesitated. She had determined that she would not lie to her daughter about anything, but she did not think the idea of a mother in great pain was a helpful one to give to a toddler. "A bit," she hedged. "It does hurt a bit, yes."

She was glad she hadn't said anything more when she saw Charlotte's face cloud over with sadness. "I wish I could make you better, Mama." Charlotte reached up to stroke her mother's cheek, copying the way Cora often stroked hers when she was sick or hurt. "What would make you feel better? Don't cry, Mama…are you crying because you're hurt?"

"No, darling." Cora wiped her eyes and squeezed Charlotte tightly. "I'm crying because you're so very, very sweet, and you make me very happy."

"Will a kiss make you feel better?" Charlotte asked.

"Yes, sweetie. Hugs and kisses from you always make me feel better."

Charlotte kissed her loudly on the cheek, only too happy to oblige.


	21. Chapter 21

AN: I'm so sorry for the time lag in updating! My computer had some issues last week and I took it in to be worked on, so I lost some writing time. So here's a long chapter with Charlotte being cute and Cobert having terrific fun (not in the same scene!) to make up for it. :-)

* * *

"Aren't you looking lovely this afternoon, Charlotte! Quite the little lady."

"Thank you," Charlotte said, with a dignity she thought fitting for a _lady_. Her mother's friend Viscountess Branksome, whom Charlotte knew as Lady B, had come for tea, and Charlotte had been brought down by her nanny to make a curtsy for their visitor. This obligation completed, she turned to kiss Mama, who had been pushed up to the tea table in her chair.

"Why don't you stay and have a bit to eat with us, Charlotte?" she heard Lady B ask.

"Yes, would you like a scone and some jam, darling?" Mama said.

"Yes, please, Mama." Charlotte nodded eagerly, watching as her mother began buttering a scone for her, and attempted to climb into one of the empty chairs.

The viscountess stood to help her, giving Charlotte a chance to notice how much larger and rounder her stomach had become since they had last seen her in the summer. "Lady B, why have you gotten so big?" she asked once she was seated.

"Charlotte!" her mother scolded. "That is _not_ a polite question to ask. I'm so sorry, Caroline; Charlotte hasn't quite—"

But Viscountess Branksome was laughing. "That's quite all right; she's only three. And I have gotten big. That's because I'm going to have a baby, Charlotte—a little boy or girl that you can play with. Ladies are always big when they're about to have babies."

Charlotte stared in awe at Lady B's round belly. "You mean, there's a baby in there?"

Her mother and her friend both laughed. "Yes, sweetheart," the viscountess said.

* * *

"Charlotte," Cora said as she tucked her daughter into bed that night, "you weren't very polite at tea this afternoon."

"But Lady B was not upset with me."

"No, Lady B wasn't upset with you. But she might have been upset. Many people _would_ have been upset. It's never polite to say anything bad about the way someone looks."

"I didn't mean to say something bad, Mama."

Cora chuckled and leaned over to kiss her. "I know, darling. And it's all right. But most people don't like to hear that they're big. Especially not ladies."

"But Lady B is big because she's going to have a baby."

"Yes, she is."

"Is that how babies always come?"

Cora hesitated. She was never sure where a conversation with Charlotte might go, and while she did not mind telling her she'd been adopted, she did not want to admit that there was another mother somewhere who had given birth to her. This was partly because she did not want Charlotte to think she had been unwanted and abandoned, but, if Cora were honest with herself, it was also because she feared her daughter might express some preference for this other, unknown mother.

"Usually," she said cautiously. "Most babies come that way, yes."

"When will her baby be here?"

"Not until after Christmas. She's got a couple months yet."

This was much safer territory, and Cora fully expected another question about Caroline Napier's child. So she was quite surprised when Charlotte next piped up with, "Are you going to get big and have a baby too, Mama?"

She knew she'd flinched as though she'd been slapped—for that was how the question had felt—and she forced a smile, trying to cover it. "No, darling. I'm not going to have a baby."

"Why not?"

Cora clenched her fists tightly in her lap. The innocence with which Charlotte probed such a painful subject made her suddenly and furiously angry. She did not believe she could love any child more than she did her daughter, and she did not think her feelings could have been made any stronger by having birthed her herself, but a desire to carry a baby in her own body still burned within her.

 _She doesn't understand,_ she reminded herself, forcing another smile. She did not want Charlotte to feel that she could not ask questions.

But the child had clearly sensed that something was amiss, for she frowned and said, "Mama?"

Cora gently smoothed her long blonde hair and gave her another kiss. "It's all right, sweetie. I can't have any babies. Remember how I can't walk, because my back is broken? I can't have babies, either."

As she'd feared, Charlotte frowned again, confused. "But then where did I come from?"

Cora continued to stroke her hair, wanting to make sure Charlotte felt safe as she told her the story. "Well, there are some babies who…don't have mamas and papas. And so they go to a place in London. When Papa and I heard that you were there, we came to get you right away, because we knew we wanted you to be our little girl."

"So I didn't have a mama and papa?"

"Only for a day or two, darling. You're ours forever now. Papa and I came and picked you up as soon as we heard, because we knew we loved you and we wanted to bring you home with us."

Charlotte smiled. "So you picked me out?"

Cora laughed softly. "Yes, we picked you out because we knew how special you were."

"I'm glad you came, Mama."

"Oh, sweetheart." Cora held her arms out, and Charlotte sat up so that she could embrace her. "Of course we came. And I'm glad, too. Know that you are loved very, very much."

"Are you going to pick anyone else out, Mama?" Charlotte asked when she had lain back down.

"I…" Cora was not sure how to answer that, nor had she been expecting the question. In truth, she'd been longing for another baby for some months now, but it seemed so very much to ask when they already had one and when she would only need more help for a second.

But before she could say anything more, Charlotte's bedroom door opened and Robert stepped in. "Ah, here's my girls! Are you ready for bed, sweetheart?" he asked Charlotte. It had become their nightly routine for Robert to arrive after Cora had had time to read their daughter's bedtime story, give her a good night kiss himself, and then push Cora off to their own room or carry her back downstairs.

"But I haven't had my story yet," Charlotte said.

"We got a bit distracted," Cora explained. "Would you like to read tonight, Papa?"

"Of course, of course." Robert picked up the book that was lying on the nightstand and took a seat on the side of Charlotte's bed.

Charlotte climbed onto his lap, and Cora slipped her hand into his as he read, savoring the moment's sweetness. When he finished, he tucked Charlotte back under the covers with a kiss and a final cuddle. "Good night, sweetheart. I love you."

"I love you too, Papa," she said. "And I'm glad you picked me."

"Picked you?" Robert raised his eyebrows to Cora, who shook her head, indicating that they would talk later. She leaned down and gave Charlotte a kiss of her own before Robert wheeled her out of the room.

"I take it you've had a talk with her about her adoption," he said once he had shut the nursery door.

"A short one, yes," she said. "She was very accepting of it, although I'm sure there will be more questions later. But it's a bit of a long story—let's both get undressed first. I may take a bath, too."

"Is your back playing up again, love?" he asked.

"No worse than usual," she said with a sigh. "But the hot water does help." It cleared her mind, too, and she needed to think. Had Charlotte's question been a sign that it was high time to ask Robert about a second child? Would he mind going through the whole process again? She knew he loved Charlotte, but did he hate reminders of her bloodline, or lack thereof? Would he think it bad for Cora's own health—did he think looking after a child too much of a strain? And then of course there were the practicalities, like moving Charlotte out of the nursery and the hiring of another wet nurse…

* * *

After being attended by his valet, Robert found Cora in her washroom, soaking in a tub full of steaming water, her eyes closed. He took a moment to let his eyes caress her face as he observed her unnoticed.

"Asleep already?" he asked teasingly from the doorway.

"No," she said, opening her eyes with a warm smile, "just relaxing."

"Will I disturb you if I join you?"

"Of course not."

He took a seat on the stool next to the tub, enjoying the view of her body through the water. "So, you and Charlotte have been talking."

"Yes." Cora smiled again. "It got started at teatime, when Caroline Napier was here. She wasn't nearly so pregnant last time Charlotte saw her, so naturally Charlotte had to ask her why she'd gotten so big."

He tried not to laugh, but… "I'm sorry," he said, giving into a chuckle. "I know she should have been scolded, but that's actually rather funny. What did Caroline say?"

"Fortunately, she thought it was rather funny, too. She told Charlotte the truth—that she was going to have a baby, and that ladies were always big when they were going to have babies. But of course I did scold her, and then we talked about it more later when she was getting into bed, because she's plenty old enough to understand what she can and can't say to people. I just thank God your mother wasn't there—this sort of thing is the reason she thinks children ought to be locked in their bedrooms until their wedding day."

He chuckled again. "Well, they are rather unpredictable little things."

"So then we got to talking about the baby, and she wanted to know if all babies come that way," Cora said. She went on to summarize her conversation with Charlotte. "She also asked me," she said casually, her eyes suddenly glued to the soap as she ran it over her arms, "whether we would ever adopt any other children."

She had? "What did you say?"

"Well, I didn't say. You came in at that point and read her her story." Cora lifted her eyes to him in a hesitant glance.

"But what _would_ you have said?" he asked quietly. Did Cora _want_ another child? Surely that was just him; surely it was too much to ask her to take on a second in her condition…

"I suppose I would have told her that it was a decision that her father and I would have to make together."

And yet there was something in her eyes that told him… "But _you_ would like to have another, wouldn't you?"

"I would, yes," she said, dropping her eyes back to the water. "Would you want one more?"

"Darling, I would want _ten_ more. But are you up to it? Charlotte hasn't been too hard for you, has she?"

"She's the best medicine in the world," Cora said, beaming. "Ten more might be a bit much, but I could certainly handle another little girl. At least one more. I'd be ecstatic to have a second baby."

He leaned over the tub to kiss her lips softly. Charlotte delighted him with her games and her laughter and her smiles and her kisses and her sweetness, and he had been wishing for months that Cora might give him some sign that it would be all right to get another.

"And the baby would be ecstatic to have you," he told her. "You're a wonderful mother, Cora."

"Thank you." She smiled. "You know, I don't think Charlotte minds at all about my legs. I think she barely thinks about them—and when she does think of it, she couldn't be any more dear."

"Mind?" he said. "Of course she doesn't mind. You're the world to her. She thinks you're a queen." He had seen Charlotte pat Cora's legs, and kiss her and tell her she loved her and wished her better, and ask her how she was feeling, and it always made him love them both so much he thought his chest might burst.

A pretty blush rose into Cora's cheeks, and she gave him another soft smile. "Let me wash your back, love," he said, unable to contain his urge to touch her any longer.

"Of course. Thank you." After passing him the soap, she pulled herself forward in the tub with her arms, and he rolled up his sleeves and moved behind her. He never tired of the glorious feel of her skin under his hands, that smooth, perfect whiteness. How beautiful she was… He wanted to kiss her soundly, but he forced himself to concentrate on running the soap over her back. He had plans for the night and he meant to take them slowly, drawing out her pleasure.

Her skin was not so perfect here, of course, not as he went further down. For here was the long, jagged scar traveling along her lower spine, here where Wagner had cut her open to give her a chance at life. "Is it bad?" she'd asked him once. "Is it very hideous?" "No," he'd lied. "A little line, and that's all." But the truth was that it was long and frighteningly intense, as though she'd gotten it in battle. Perhaps she had.

Robert did not find it hideous—he found _nothing_ on her body hideous. The scar was a reminder of how much she had suffered, and how graciously, a reminder of how much ugliness had been forced into her life, and how beautiful she had remained in the midst of it. Catching sight of her scar only made him want to be tender with her.

Finished washing her, he unbuttoned his shirt and removed it, suspecting he might be about to get wetter.

"What are you doing?" she asked him, a smile tugging at her lips.

"Lean back into the water, darling," he said, bracing an arm behind her. "Lean back against my arm."

Cora did as he asked, her eyes closing as he lowered her into the water's warmth again. Then he slipped his remaining hand underneath her and began to massage her back as best he could from this position.

"Oh, Robert," she sighed. "That feels absolutely _wonderful_."

"I thought it might be nice with the hot water," he said, kissing her temple. "Just relax, sweetheart."

Her eyes still closed, Cora rested her head back against his shoulder as he worked. "You're good to me," she whispered.

He was glad she thought so, but in truth he never thought of it that way. In fact, he suspected he enjoyed this as much as she did, for he loved to touch her so intimately and listen to the little sounds she made as he did so. He'd gotten rather good at it over the last few years, he thought, his fingers readily finding and releasing the knots that gathered in her muscles after hours sitting immobile in her chair. She'd give a soft sigh each time he succeeded, and he longed to kiss her slightly parted lips each time.

At last he finished, and he gave in to this desire. She kissed him back hungrily, wrapping her arms around his neck to draw him closer

"Robert," she whispered through her kisses, "let me…"

"Not yet, my love," he said. "You first." He pulled away from her lips and began to kiss her neck, slowly travelling upward to behind her ear. At the same time, he ran a feather-light finger over the broken place in her back, and he felt her shiver in his arms.

"Robert…" she murmured. How he _loved_ to hear her say his name that way, soft and pleading as her accent entwined around each letter.

In response, he ran his tongue behind her ear—she drew in her breath sharply at that—and then moved down to her breasts.

"I'm tingling all over," she said as he slowly toured the upper parts of her body.

Frankly, so was he. He did not think he would ever be able to make her understand that simply touching her body did nearly as much for him as it did for her. "Good, good," he whispered. "Are you ready for me?"

She nodded eagerly. "In here?"

"Why not? You're already suitably dressed."

She laughed at that, and he plunged his hand deep into the water, gazing into her face as he did so. She gripped the sides of the tub to steady herself, and her mouth formed a silent _o_ as her eyes closed and her head fell backward.

"Cora, my love," he whispered, kissing her forehead after he gently withdrew his hand.

"Take me to bed," she said, opening her eyes and stroking her hand through his hair. "Take me to bed, and I'll take you."

"Thank you, darling." He kissed her again and then let the water out, waiting for it to drain down before grabbing a towel and drying her off. Then he wrapped her in it and lifted her to carry her to the bedroom. She nestled her head against his chest, and the feeling of her curls rubbing against his bare skin nearly drove him mad.

He set her down on the bed and then quickly removed the rest of his clothing before climbing in next to her and closing his eyes, letting her take him to the stars with her hands and her lips. He wanted to tell her he loved her, wanted to tell her she was the most beautiful, divine creature, but all he could manage was to sob her name repeatedly.

When at last she finished, he helped her lie down, pulling her close so that her head rested on his chest.

"Your heart's beating very fast," she observed.

"You've done that," he said, running his fingers through her hair. "Proud of your work, Lady Downton?"

She lifted her head to kiss his jawline. "I am, rather. It's wonderful to know I can still make your heart race."

"Darling, you've always made my heart race."

They lay in silence for a few minutes as he rejoiced in the feeling of her naked body tucked against his.

"It's still a bit early to go to sleep," Cora said optimistically.

"Is it now?" He felt her nod against him. "I can't imagine how we'll pass the time."

He sat up and propped her against the pillows, ready to make love to her again.


	22. Chapter 22

"These children are all about Charlotte's age," said the young woman who was leading them through the halls of the Foundling Hospital and back to an office.

There was a perfectly straight line of little girls standing perfectly still and quiet against the wall.

"Lined up to be taken in for their luncheon," she said. "You see, Charlotte, these are some of the girls you might have grown up with."

The woman's voice was not unkind, but her words only caused Charlotte to press herself more tightly against her mother, on whose lap she was sitting as Robert pushed the two of them down the hall. Cora could see why. Now that she had spent three years raising Charlotte, the hospital seemed a far more forbidding place than she had remembered, and the realization that her little girl might have been standing in the line of empty-eyed children made her want to hug Charlotte close and never let her go.

How frightened some of them looked, and how unnatural their silent stillness was. Most of them stared at Cora and her chair, but it was not with the judgment or fear or pity or even curiosity that she was used to seeing in strangers and acquaintances. Their faces held none of that; rather, their expressions seemed to plead to be taken home, too.

This was, she realized as she softly stroked Charlotte's hair, far too frightening of a place to have taken her. Robert and Cora had discussed whether their older daughter ought to come along when they picked up their new baby and decided she should—it would be helpful, they'd thought, for her to have a clear picture of how they'd gone to get her. It would also be Charlotte's first opportunity to see London, and the trip had grown to include several extra days for Robert to take her to the zoo and to the Tower and to visit some of the city's churches and parks. Yet the Foundling Hospital was much more somber than it had seemed in their memories, and it was clear to Cora now that bringing Charlotte had been a mistake.

At the end of the hallway, the woman ushered them into a small sitting room, where Robert pushed Cora (and Charlotte) near the couch and then took a seat next to the wheelchair. It was just as nervewracking as it had been the first time, this sitting and _waiting_ for their baby to appear.

"Is she coming?" Charlotte said after a few moments, interrupting their anxious silence. "Is my sister coming?"

"Yes, darling," Cora said quietly. "She's coming." They had not told Charlotte she would soon have a sibling until they'd gotten word that a baby was available, thinking the vague, "We will go to London at some point and pick up a new baby when one is born," would be too complex for her to grasp, and thus this new idea of a sister had been much discussed over the last few days.

"But she will not be able to play with you just yet," Robert reminded her. "She'll be very little at first."

"Like Evelyn," said Charlotte, referring to the baby Caroline Napier had just had.

"Yes, sweetie," Cora said, smiling. "Like Evelyn."

At last a nurse arrived with a baby in her arms. Robert stood to take her, but Charlotte moved faster.

"I want to see her!" she cried, leaping off her mother's lap and darting over to the nurse, effectively removing any worries about how she would take to the new baby.

* * *

"Charlotte seems pleased to be a big sister," Robert said later.

"Pleased? I didn't think I'd be able to get her to go to bed, she's so excited!" Cora was sitting up in bed, resting in Robert's arms while the baby rested in hers. Eleanor was a quiet baby thus far; she was awake at the moment but was staring calmly around the room with no hint of fussiness.

As soon as they had agreed to adopt a second child, Robert had asked if they could name her after his grandmother. Cora had readily agreed, thrilled to see him interested from the very beginning this time.

"How do we always get such perfect ones?" he asked, touching a gentle finger to Eleanor's nose.

"I think perhaps they're all perfect," Cora said softly. "I felt so sorry for all the ones we had to leave behind. I wish we could have taken every child there."

Robert kissed her temple. "You can't right everything that's wrong in the world, darling. But you have changed the world radically for two little girls."

Yes. What she did for her daughters would have to be enough, yet it was maddening to think that someone else might have been her daughter had they contacted the Foundling Hospital a month earlier or a month later, and the children she thought of as hers would have grown up alone. She was haunted by the thought of all the other little Charlottes standing in the line and all the other little Eleanors who would be arriving at the hospital this month.

"I don't think it was very good to take Charlotte there," she mused. "I think it upset her." She was hoping it was past now—Charlotte had seemed so excited once they'd gotten Eleanor and left with her.

"No, that wasn't a very bright idea on our part," he agreed. "But I didn't remember the place as being so… _dark_."

"Do you think it's changed so very much in three years?" Cora asked.

"No, I think we've changed. I think it looks different to me now that I'm a father."

She had changed too, she knew. "Would you like to hold her?"

"Of course." Robert settled Cora back against the pillows and then reached out for the child, but they were interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Your lordship?"

"Yes?" Robert called out.

The door opened to reveal the new nurse hired for Eleanor. "Nanny Andrews told me you'd be in here, my lord," she said, blushing and lowering her eyes. She was referring to the woman hired to look after Charlotte, a woman who was left with nothing to do more days than not thanks to Cora's regular involvement. "You've got the most underworked nanny in the country," Violet had muttered early on.

"Yes, I often am in here," Robert agreed as Cora felt her own cheeks redden.

"Yes, milord. Nanny says Miss Charlotte's had a nightmare and won't calm down. Could you come, sir?"

"Come and get me if she needs me," Cora called after him as he left with the nurse. It was moments like these when she most hated her spine. But then Eleanor gurgled happily, and she turned her attentions back to the sweet baby in her arms.

A few minutes later, Robert returned, carrying a weeping Charlotte. "I thought she needed to see you, too, and hear from both of us," he said quietly. It did not surprise her that he had brought Charlotte to her—Charlotte certainly loved him, but she had spent far more time with Cora and usually came to her for comfort—but she was not sure what he meant by "hear from both of us."

Robert set Charlotte down on the bed and took Eleanor from Cora. The baby had begun to fuss in response to the noise of the other child's tears, and he shushed her and bounced her in his arms as climbed back into bed himself. Charlotte, meanwhile, crawled quickly over the sheets to Cora's now-outstretched arms.

"Come here, sweetheart," Cora said, pulling her close. "Did you have a bad dream?" Charlotte nodded. "It's okay," Cora went on, giving her a kiss. "It was only a dream. You're safe. Mama's right here."

Charlotte shook her head. "I was afraid you wouldn't be here!" she sobbed.

"What?" Cora glanced at Robert and noticed for the first time that there were tears shining in his own eyes.

"She's afraid we won't keep her," he whispered.

"Oh!" Cora cried, feeling her heart break. She pulled back slightly so she could look into Charlotte's eyes. "What do you mean, you're afraid we won't keep you?"

"Are you going to send me back, Mama? Now that you have another baby?"

"No, darling!" Cora embraced her tightly again. "No, we would never send you back! We love you just as much as we always have, and we love you very much. You're our _daughter_."

"But what if I'm bad, Mama? Will you make me go back to London? Please don't make me go back to London!"

 _"Charlotte,"_ she breathed. She squeezed her even harder and rested her cheek against Charlotte's head. " _No_. It does not work that way. There is nothing you could ever do that would make us send you back. You will never, ever, _ever_ have to go back to London. You are our little girl, and we are your mama and papa. That will never, ever change, and you will always be here with us."

"Adoption is forever, Charlotte," Robert said suddenly, and Charlotte turned her tear-stained face toward him. "We are always going to be your parents, we are always going to love you, and there will always be a place for you at Downton. This is forever."

"Papa is right," said Cora, cradling Charlotte's head against her chest—if only Charlotte could feel the love exploding there—and pressing a kiss to her hair. "We love you and Eleanor both very much, and no one is going to be sent anywhere, ever. Do you understand that?"

Charlotte nodded slowly.

"This morning scared you, didn't it?" Cora said.

Another nod.

"Papa and I didn't realize how scary that would be for you. We shouldn't have brought you there, and we are very sorry about that. But you will never have to go there again, so you shouldn't worry about it or think about it anymore."

After a moment, Charlotte said, "I liked getting Eleanor, though."

Cora chuckled softly. "Yes, it was nice to have you there to see Eleanor. I think she was glad. Would you like to give her a kiss?"

Charlotte sat up and looked around, as though she had not noticed her sister was in the room.

"She's right here, darling," Robert said, holding the baby up. "Be gentle—she's just gone to sleep."

Charlotte leaned over and gave her sister a soft, careful kiss on the cheek, then scooted back into Cora's arms.

"Would you like to sleep here tonight, sweetheart?" Cora offered. It was not something they generally allowed, but… "Would it make you feel safer to sleep in between Mama and Papa, just for tonight?" Charlotte nodded happily. "Let's lie down, then."

"Do you need me to help you?" Robert asked, and she watched him wonder where he would set the baby.

"I can mostly manage," she said. In the time she had spent managing a toddler, she had learned how to move her body with her arms, which had grown progressively stronger. She laid the pillows flat and then pushed her body further down the bed. "You can just use one hand—help me turn my hips over so I'm on my side." He managed to flip her one-handed, and she turned to Charlotte. "Darling, could you straighten Mama's legs?"

Eager to help as always, Charlotte helped move the deadened legs into a comfortable position and then curled up next to her mother, who kissed her. Cora took a deep breath of her daughter's sweet scent as she began to stroke her hair. How cozy, to lie here with her eldest while Robert sat a few feet away, cuddled up with their youngest…

"London was scary, Mama," Charlotte said suddenly.

"I know, darling, but let's not think about that now or you'll have more dreams. There were some things in London I think you liked, weren't there? Didn't you have fun going places with Papa?"

"Yes."

"Let's think about some of those happy things, then, before you go to sleep. What was your favorite thing?"

Charlotte was silent for a moment, thinking. "The animals," she said.

"Ah, the zoo animals. Of course. Did you have a favorite animal?"

"The elephants!"

"Oh, I always like the elephants, too. What else did you like at the zoo?"

Charlotte chattered on, her voice slowly becoming sleepier until it began to falter, and Cora kissed her softly as she drifted off.

"I think I'll take Eleanor back to the nursery and lie down with you two, if Charlotte's asleep," Robert whispered a few minutes later. His wife did not answer, and he glanced down at her. "Cora? Cora?" She was, he realized, as sound asleep as Charlotte, her arms wrapped around the little girl.

He observed the two of them for a moment and then could not help but reach one hand out to brush it lightly over Cora's curls. She murmured softly at the touch but did not wake.

He longed to curl up next to the both of them, but he suddenly did not want to turn the light out or close his eyes and let go of this moment, nor did he quite want to give up the baby. For there was something unaccountably sweet in watching his wife sleep in an embrace with their older child while he sat nearby, the warm weight of their new baby in his arms.

His words to Dr. Jones several years earlier, the day after Cora's accident, came back to him. "I'll give her a good life," he'd promised earnestly. Yet that wasn't quite what had happened. While he liked to think he'd done his best by Cora, and he believed that she was happy, he would not, if asked to describe their marriage, have said, "I've given her a good life." Rather, she had given him one.

* * *

AN: Thank you so much for reading and reviewing, or just for reading! I hope you've all enjoyed the story. I know I've enjoyed hearing from so many of you! I do have tentative plans to write a sequel set during the season 1 era (starring Cobert and their grown-up daughters), but it won't be published until after season 6 airs in America. (I watch for the first time in January and February, and I'll be staying off this site after the season starts in the U.K. to avoid spoilers.)

I do, however, plan to update my drabble/ficlet collection "The Ways They Said It" at least a couple times before the U.K. premiere. So I'll see you all over there! :-)


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